An Eye For An Eye (31 page)

Richter glanced at the door, then, sensing movement, spun his head in time to see Guerrero lunging for the gun. Richter stepped forward and shoved the still-bent Mexican president, sending him sprawling across the floor. He spun and brought his own weapon up as Guerrero rolled over. Richter centered his sights on Guerrero’s head then, at the last second, shifted his aim. There was a flash of orange flame from Guerrero’s gun, and Richter staggered as something slammed into his hip, a white-hot flash of pain shooting down his leg. He squeezed the trigger, stumbled, then adjusted his aim and squeezed once more.

What were they doing? The sensor wondered as he stared at the police truck. The truck had stopped. Then the reverse lights flickered on and the truck began to back up. A moment later, it turned and began to drive back down the dirt road toward the slaughterhouse.

“Target Four has turned around,” he radioed. “The police are coming back.”

“Roger, Sea Dog. I need a solution on Target Four again. Target Four is priority.”

“Target Four is sparkle. Target Four is priority.

“Copy Sea Dog.  Engage on my command.”

“Copy, Jackhammer. Sea Dog holding. Waiting for your command.”

He glanced at the pilot. The pilot nodded. They were ready.

Richter glanced down at his leg. He touched his hip and, with a sudden intake of breath, yanked his hand away. He took a deep breath, then gingerly felt his hip again. The wound seemed to be bleeding freely but it appeared that the bullet had only grazed him. Despite that, the pain was intense. He wiped his bloody hand on his chest.

President Magaña slowly lifted himself off the floor, and Richter could see that his chin was scraped raw and he was bleeding from a cut over his eye. Magaña wiped the blood from his eyes then picked up his gun. He looked up at Richter and nodded, signaling that he was okay. Richter turned back to Guerrero. Hands clamped over his knee, the cartel boss was writhing in agony on the floor.

“We need to get out of here now,” Richter said. “Cover me,” he added then nodded toward Guerrero. “I’ll get him.”

“Jackhammer ETA three minutes,” the sensor heard in his earphones.

“Copy,” the sensor said as he watched the police truck crest a small rise. The truck slowed and he could see two men in back leaning over the cab with their weapons trained forward. The other two were squatted by the sides, their weapons trained through the rails.

Limping, Richter dragged a screaming Guerrero across the floor. As Magaña led the way, he struggled around the bodies and stopped by the door. He peered through the small glass window. There was a short hallway that led to the foyer. On one side were two doors—offices, Richter guessed—and on the other, a third door with the same small window as the one he was peering through. That led, he assumed, to the cutting room. Straight ahead, there was a set of glass doors that led to a foyer. Outside, he reasoned, was a parking lot.
He
He leaned to the side for a better view when he saw it: a body lying on the floor just on the other side of the door. He stared for a second. The figure was hooded, and the hands were bound together from behind.

“Watch him,” Richter said, gesturing toward Guerrero. “I’ll be back in a second.”

He stepped into the hallway. With one eye on the doors that opened to the foyer, he bent down cautiously and checked the pulse of the man on the floor. The man was still alive. But who he was and why the cartel guards had brought him here was anyone’s guess. With one hand he began tugging on the hood. The hooded man seemed to understand what he was trying to do and lifted his head.

Richter pulled the hood off and stared down into the grinning face of Terry Fogel.

“LZ Whiskey in sight!” the crew chief shouted above the engine noise.

The lieutenant glanced around the cabin, at the hard faces of his men, locked and loaded, ready to earn their pay. He braced himself as the helicopter shuddered, then glanced up at the crew chief. The crew chief stared back then nodded once. No words needed, the message was clear.
Good hunting.

Richter stood in the foyer and glanced out the outside door. The foyer was recessed; the building jutting out on both sides, an overhang creating a short, covered walkway outside. Straight ahead, in the narrow sliver of the parking lot lit by floodlights, sat a battered pickup truck and, next to it, a white SUV. The vehicles were parked in front of a chain-link fence that stretched out of sight on both sides. He pressed a button on the key fob he had taken from one of Guerrero’s men and heard a chirp as the taillights on the SUV flashed. Holding his gun ready, he waited for more cartel guards to come running. When none came, he propped both the inner and outer doors open, then returned to the hallway where Magaña was guarding both Guerrero and Fogel. Guerrero, who had been moaning loudly, was now quiet, and Richter realized that he had passed out from the pain. Fogel was quiet too, but his eyes, Richter noticed, took in everything. He stared down at Fogel.

“Get up,” he ordered.

Fogel grinned. “Ah, now. That’s a little difficult, what with my hands behind my back.” He made no effort to hide the singsong lilt of his Belfast accent.

Richter pointed his gun at the Irish terrorist. “Get up,” he ordered again.

Fogel stared back for a second then rolled onto his belly. He pulled his knees below him and a second later he was standing.

“Wasn’t as difficult as I thought.” He grinned.

Richter ignored the taunt and slipped the hood back over Fogel’s head.

While President Magaña stood watch in the foyer, Richter led Fogel out to the covered walkway. He scanned the parking lot and, satisfied that it was empty, led Fogel over to the SUV. Moments later, after he had Fogel strapped into the backseat, he glanced back at the building, at the Mexican president standing in the foyer, and at the forty yards of asphalt and ten yards of covered walkway that separated them. A long way to drag an unconscious man, he thought. He climbed into the front seat of the SUV.

Ten seconds later, he pulled the SUV in front of the covered walkway and left it idling as he went to get Guerrero.

The sensor saw the man exit the building, leading the hooded prisoner to the SUV. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, but the angle was wrong and he couldn’t see the man’s face.
Could it be him?

He glanced back at the other screen and watched the truck as it crested a small hill, now only one hundred yards from the slaughterhouse. Unexpectedly, the truck slowed then stopped and the men in the back hopped out. The truck began to move again, the four cops jogging behind.

The sensor’s eyes shot back to the first screen. The SUV pulled up to the covered walkway and the man climbed out. He was below the canopy before the sensor could get a good look at his face.

His eyes shot back to the second screen. Suddenly the truck began to accelerate toward the gate.

“Sea Dog. Engage Target Four now.”

The sensor glanced over at the pilot; the pilot’s thumb moved over the switch on his control stick.

“Fox One,” the pilot called as he pressed the button.

As the Hellfire missile released from the pylon, its rocket ignited, and it streaked away from the Reaper toward the truck five miles away.

Richter reached down and grabbed Guerrero by the arms. With a hiss of breath, he tried to ignore the pain in his own arm and hip as he dragged Guerrero to the foyer, leaving a bloody trail in the hallway. His own blood or Guerrero’s, he could no longer tell the difference. Magaña stepped out of the way as Richter dragged the still unconscious Guerrero through the foyer out to the walkway. Richter paused to catch his breath when he heard Magaña cough. It was an odd sound, and the hairs rose on the back of Richter’s neck. The Mexican President coughed again, his bloody spit splattering on the glass doors. Richter dropped Guerrero, hurried over and grabbed Magaña by the elbow.

“Are you okay?”

“I think I bit my tongue,” Magaña said, his voice thick.

Richter studied him for a second.

Suddenly, the Mexican President slumped against the door. In the dim light of the walkway, Richter noticed the blood on Magaña’s lips, seeping out of his mouth, running down his chin. It was frothy and bright red.
Oh Shit!
He slipped his hand inside the Mexican President’s suit coat, sliding it over his chest. Below his arm, he found the sticky wet spot. The bullet that had grazed his hip must have hit Magaña, he realized. The president gasped, began to wheeze then his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he slumped forward into Richter’s arms.

Forgetting Guerrero, Richter dragged a now unconscious Magaña out to the light of the parking lot next to the idling SUV. He gently laid him on the ground. Magaña was struggling to breathe. Richter suspected the bullet had punctured his lung. He glanced up at the SUV, wondering if there was a first aid kit when he heard the growl of another engine. He turned and saw the lights of the truck racing toward the gate.

The sensor spotted the two men, one dragging the other into the parking lot. The injured man’s eyes were closed. He zoomed into the man’s face.
Oh, shit!
he thought as he instinctively reached for the joystick, moving the laser target out into the field, knowing as he did so that it was too late.

Fuck!

Ignoring the truck, Richter turned back to Magaña. The president’s breath came in short wheezes. He slid his hand up the president’s neck, finding a weak pulse. Then he slid his hand back to the blood-soaked area below Magaña’s arm.
Damn
, he cursed. He had to stop the bleeding, now! He stood, hoping he would find something he could use in the SUV, when he was suddenly slammed from behind as a bright flash illuminated the night.

“Ten seconds!” the crew chief shouted.

The lieutenant stood and signaled his men. Moments later, the Knighthawk suddenly pulled up and the lieutenant saw the building pass directly below them as the helicopter settled into a hover over the parking lot. As two ropes dropped from the helicopter, he glanced down. In fractions of a second, his eyes took in the lot, the burning police truck, the smashed gate, the building, and the two men lying in the parking lot next to the SUV.

“Go! Go! Go!” the crew chief yelled.

One by one, the SEALs began to fast rope out the door. Four men from his helicopter would secure the perimeter while the other four—himself included—would breach the front door. Six SEALs from the second helicopter would fast rope into the truck lot on the other side and breach the doors on the loading dock. Then the second helicopter would deploy two more SEALs to the roof.

“Seven!” the crew chief yelled.

The lieutenant reached out and grabbed the rope.

“Eight!” the crew chief yelled again, clapping the lieutenant’s shoulder as the lieutenant stepped out of the chopper.

Richter opened his eyes and squinted up at the face above him. He tried to sit, but a hand gently pushed him back down.

“Easy, sir,” the man said. “You’re safe now.”

Confused, Richter stared at the man’s face.

The man smiled. “I’m just getting an IV set up. I’ll give you something for the pain in a minute.”

Richter shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Where are the others?” he asked.

The corpsman glanced over his shoulder, shouted something.

“Where is the president?” Richter asked.

The corpsman stared at him, and Richter tried to read the man’s eyes. Suddenly, he felt himself being lifted, and they were moving. The corpsman jogged alongside, holding the IV bag aloft. He heard the
whop whop whop
of the chopper and closed his eyes as the dust swirled over him. Suddenly, he felt a wave wash over him and knew right away that it wasn’t the downdraft of the rotors. He opened his mouth to curse at the corpsman but no sound came out. He felt another wave and then his body was sinking.
Goddamn it!
He tried to fight it but he began to fall, spiraling down, into the blackness.

He woke again sometime later and realized they were airborne. In the dim red light of the chopper, he turned his head, searching. Magaña lay on the litter next to him. Even in the dim red light, Richter could see the ashen face, the vacant stare. A soldier wiped the blood off the Mexican President’s cheek then gently closed his eyes.

Richter stared at the body, too dazed to feel anything. He heard a voice in his ear and turned.

“I’m sorry, sir. He didn’t make it.”

Confused, Richter stared at the new face.

“I’m Lieutenant Stolarz, sir.” the SEAL shouted.

Richter nodded as the lieutenant filled in some of the blanks. The Mexican President had been shot. He was dead by the time the SEALs had found him. His brain too foggy to process the news, Richter shook his head.

“We’ll be landing in five minutes,” Stolarz told him.

Richter wanted to ask where, when the lieutenant frowned.

“Sir?” he shouted. “The six bodies inside?”

It took Richter a moment before he realized what the lieutenant meant.

“Cartel strongmen,” he said softly, his words slurred. He nodded toward Magaña. “We took them out.”

The lieutenant stared at him for a moment then shook his head. “Hot damn, sir!”

The chopper jerked once, shuddered, then suddenly dropped. Richter felt woozy. A moment later the chopper settled. He turned to the lieutenant.

“Guerrero?”

Lieutenant Stolarz grinned. “You bagged yourself a big one, sir!” He gestured toward the front of the cabin, and Richter craned his neck to see. A now conscious Guerrero was being tended by another corpsman.

“Where’s the other one?”

“Sir?”

“There was one more,” Richter insisted.

Lt. Stolarz shook his head. “No, sir. Just you three.”

There was a sudden change in pitch and Richter felt a shudder and then a sinking feeling again as the helicopter began to descend.