Hostile Borders (3 page)

Turning his back to the wind, Stevens reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes along with his Zippo lighter. Tapping the pack against his finger, he popped up one of the slim white cylin
ders and drew it out with his lips. Flipping open the lighter, he thumbed it into flame. Tilting his head down, Stevens cupped his hands around his face and lit the cigarette.

“You know, those things will kill you,” Pena said as he trotted by.

“Yeah,” Stevens said, “well, just keep running. You'll stay warmer that way.”

Damn, even the inmates were harassing him about smoking. Fuck it. With his eyes closed, he drew in a lungful of the rich, fragrant smoke. Turning his face back up, Stevens blew out the tobacco smoke in a large, white cloud.

“What the hell,” he thought. Suddenly, there was a sparkling red line within the cloud of smoke. The line darted about and then disappeared as the smoke was blown away by the wind. Looking down, he could now see that there was a red dot bouncing around his chest. The cigarette hanging forgotten between his fingers, his eyes were drawn up into the sky where the red light had come from. Stevens raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the lights around the exercise yard and saw a red light with a suddenly flashing faint white light below it. Before he had time to more than wonder, the sledgehammer blows of the 9mm bullets striking his chest slammed him backward against the fencing.

The frangible copper bullets tore into his chest and shattered into hundreds of copper fragments. The shockwave of the impacts and the ripping fragments shattered his heart and shredded his lungs. The shock
of the wounds was so overwhelming, there was no pain, only a heavy pressure on his chest as the bright copper taste of blood filled his mouth. Through his fading eyesight and astonishment, Stevens's last thought on earth was that he saw the dark wings of an angel coming down toward him. And then he saw nothing at all.

In the tandem rider position, strapped to Santiago, Falcon swept the rooftop with the muzzle of his submachine gun. His MP5K-PDW had a long suppressor screwed on to the muzzle. The beam from the laser sight above the suppressor was plainly visible to Falcon through his night-vision goggles. To reduce the already-compact size of the MP5K-PDW, Falcon had removed the folding stock and fitted the weapon with a receiver cap that had a mounting point for a sling. The sling was attached to the weapon by a spring clip, and looped around Falcon's upper chest and left shoulder as he rode in front of Reyes on the Sigma tandem parachute system. With the MP5K-PDW pushed out against the resistance of the sling, Falcon was able to accurately aim the stubby weapon with the aid of the laser sight.

The two men had practiced their combined approach to a targeted landing zone for weeks out in the desert of northern Sonora, Mexico, less than fifty miles
southeast of Nogales. That was where Santiago had them practicing to break Pena from the federal lockup in San Diego. Falcon still had bruises on his chest and legs from the practice tandem jumps that hadn't gone well. The MP5K-PDW submachine gun had been carried in the case strapped to his chest. He had pulled it out during the approach to the rooftop.

Loaded, the submachine gun seemed to be nearly as wide as it was long, due to the 100-round Beta C-Mag drum magazine that was attached to it. The two drums stuck out from either side of the weapon, each loaded with fifty rounds of Engel Ballistic Research's Sky Marshal frangible 9mm ammunition. The special powdered copper/nylon matrix hollowpoint bullets would shatter if they hit a hard target, minimizing the danger of a ricochet. But they would rip deeply into the soft tissue of a human body, as Stevens had suddenly found out.

A long silver sound suppressor was attached to the threaded muzzle of the MP5K-PDW. That was the source of the white flashing light that Stevens had seen next to the laser sight of the weapon. The suppressor had lessened the sound of the shots so much that the wind covered what little was left of the noise. The cracking zip sound of the high-velocity 9mm frangible bullets, breaking the sound barrier at the muzzle of the suppressor as they fired at 1,700 feet per second, wasn't even recognizable as a gunshot. No sound of gunfire even reached the rooftop, or the city streets far below.

Sweeping the area of the roof in front of him, Falcon couldn't see any further targets. He only had a few seconds to look over the area as Reyes brought the tandem
parachute rig in for a landing. One moment, the street-lights were visible more than a hundred feet below them. Then the fence line swept by only a few feet under their feet as the tandem jumpers came in on the roof.

The incessant landing practice demanded by Santiago proved its value as both men moved in smooth unison dropping down to the rooftop. While still holding up his MP5K-PDW, Falcon lifted his legs, bending them at the hip and knee, so he was in a sitting position. With Falcon's legs out of the way, Reyes spread his feet out to help cushion the impact of landing.

Pulling down on both of the steering toggles, Reyes flared the canopy, causing it to stall and lose much of its forward momentum. The stalled parachute dropped the tandem jumpers almost straight down from a height of less than six feet. The wall of the machinery structure was coming up to them just as Reyes's feet touched down on the rooftop.

Immediately releasing the left-hand toggle, Reyes and Falcon twisted to the left as Reyes's legs took up the pressure of hitting the roof. Both men fell on their sides, rolling with the impact. The turning motion twisted the suspension lines together, and helped collapse the huge Icarus canopy before the wind could catch it and drag the jumpers into the fence or back up into the air and off the roof entirely.

With the canopy collapsed, Reyes reached to the toggles and pulled the quick-release catches that held Falcon to him. Rolling away, Falcon quickly scrambled to his feet, putting his back up to the nearest wall and sweeping the rooftop with the muzzle of his MP5K-PDW.

Reyes had his hands full gathering up his parachute canopy and lines into a bundle. He wasn't acting to recover the chute for another use, just to get it out of the way of Santiago who was coming in for a landing a few seconds later. It was Santiago who was bringing in the means of escape for them all.

With the AN/PVS-7B night-vision goggles pushed up onto his helmet, Santiago came in fast and low, pulling his steering toggles down at what looked like the very last moment. With the toggles pulled very low, the black PD-193 canopy of his parachute seemed to almost hit an invisible wall in the air. The ex-SEAL's feet hit the ground in unison, trotting forward to match his last bit of forward speed. Turning hard and bending forward at the waist as he released his right-hand toggle, Santiago collapsed his chute, quickly reducing it to a pile of cloth fluttering in the breeze.

Standing almost directly under the men as they flew in over the building's east wall, Pena just stared for a moment in admiration and awe. He had been a skydiver himself for years, but this was a demonstration of daring and skill rarely seen by anyone. Even in the military, jumping into a cloud-covered night sky and landing on an area the size of a rooftop would be considered something extraordinary. To do it into a crowded city with no special beacons showing on the landing zone wouldn't even be considered possible, let alone practical. And here three men had done it for him.

As Santiago was gathering up his parachute canopy and shedding his Vector 3 M-series harness, Pena
walked up to him. In spite of his wearing a bright orange prisoner's garb, his approach to Santiago caused a reaction Pena did not expect.

In a fast, smooth motion, Santiago dropped his harness and pulled out his Glock 19 pistol from its Omega VI holster on his thigh before the whole rig hit the rooftop. Pena's eyes were pulled to the parachute rig as it fell, when he looked back up, he was staring down the muzzle of a pistol not a dozen feet from his face. Instantly, he realized he was looking at a man who was more used to dealing out death than even Pena himself was. For only a second, there was a view of what could have been fear in Pena's eyes—then the look was gone.

“You are Santiago?” Pena said after a moment.

“No names please,” Santiago said. “But you were possibly expecting someone else?”

“No, of course,” Pena said, “but my lawyer only told me that you would be coming to release me, not how you would enter the building.”

“He didn't have a need to know,” Santiago said, “besides, he didn't want to know. He did what he was paid for and took almost no risk for it, that was enough for him.”

“But how are we going to get out of this building?”

“We already are outside of the building,” Santiago said. “The trick now is to get down from here.”

“You brought rappelling ropes and equipment?” Pena said as he looked at the cloth bags strapped to Santiago.

“Too far and too slow,” Santiago said. “Besides, rap
pelling wouldn't get us away from the building fast enough. I was told you were an experienced skydiver, Jefe. It's time for your first BASE jump.”

The use of the “chief” honorific softened the lack of respect Pena noticed in Santiago's tone. But the man was something of a legend in the very select circles of the men who made their living running tons of narcotics into the United States. He could be excused because of the pressure of the moment. But a BASE jump (Building, Antenna, Span [bridge], and Earth)?

“Time,” Santiago called out.

“Thirty seconds,” Falcon said from across the rooftop.

Falcon and Reyes were over by the cattle chute gate. As Falcon looked to Santiago for a signal, the leader of the breakout nodded his head.

With a short, snarling burst of fire, Falcon blasted the locking mechanism from the gate. The frangible 9mm projectiles from the EBR Air Marshal ammunition smashed into the lock. In spite of each bullet only weighing eighty-five grains, their power was evident as the steel lock broke into pieces. After they had delivered their energy against the lock, the frangible powdered copper and nylon bullets broke into dust from the impact. Reyes jerked open the door and the two men entered the fenced corridor.

At the far end of the cattle chute, past the elevator door, was a second gate. Again, Falcon's submachine gun spit out 9mm projectiles at a rate of 900 rounds per minute. The sound of the burst was reduced to a stuttering thudding sound by the stainless-steel suppressor
screwed to the muzzle. A half-dozen bullets removed the second lock from the equation, and the gate was open.

On the far side of the gate was a ladder leading up to the top of the machinery structure. As Santiago stripped off the cloth bags he had strapped to his legs, he looked to Pena.

“Is there anyone else up here?” he asked.

“There's a second guard,” Pena said. “He's the one who normally escorts me up here but I haven't seen him since we got up here.”

“Two!” Santiago called out.

Falcon looked at Santiago and nodded. With Falcon leading the way, his MP5K-PDW pointing forward, Reyes and Falcon went up the ladder to the roof of the machinery structure. No one was visible during a quick look around, so both men approached the guard shelter. With his Glock in his hand, Reyes made ready to open the door to the guard shelter. Falcon held his submachine gun at the ready and nodded. Reyes pulled the door open and Falcon sprayed the inside of the shelter as soon as it was exposed.

The bullets ripped across the small area, shattering the windows and tearing up a small control panel.

“Don't kill him!” Pena shouted. He was just coming up the ladder. Right behind Pena was Santiago, the handles to the bags he had carried on the jump slung over his shoulder.

Just as he was about to sweep the other side of the small shelter, Falcon held his fire and raised the muzzle of his weapon. With the stuttering sound of the sup
pressed submachine gun gone, the tinkle of falling glass could be heard along with a high-pitched sobbing. Pena walked up to the shelter. Looking in, he saw Sergeant Munson scrabbling around against the wall, crying and refusing to look at who was standing at the door. After a moment, Pena could make out the words Munson was saying.

“No one was supposed to be killed,” he kept repeating in a high-pitched whine. “No one was supposed to be killed. There wasn't supposed to be any shooting.”

“Munson!” Pena said.

“No, no, no,” Munson cried as he put up his hands, thrusting them out toward Pena. “Don't let him kill me. Please, don't let him kill me. I did what I was told.”

“Don't worry, Munson,” Pena said in a calm voice, “I won't let him kill you. You did what you were supposed to.”

“That's right,” Munson said as he finally looked at Pena. “I did what I was supposed to. Stevens wasn't supposed to be here.”

“No, he wasn't,” Pena said, as he gestured to Falcon to give him the submachine gun.

Falcon looked to Santiago, who was opening up his bags and pulling bundles of equipment out. Santiago looked up for a moment and nodded.

“We don't have time for this,” he said.

Quickly unsnapping the MP5K-PDW from the sling he had looped around his shoulder, Falcon handed the stubby weapon to Pena.

“And don't be afraid,” Pena said quietly to Munson as he took the weapon from Falcon. “But we must
make it look good, as if you had no part in this whatsoever.”

“Uh, okay,” Munson said with his voice still shaky.

“But you really shouldn't have spoken badly about my brother,” Pena said and he pulled up the submachine gun.

Before Munson could do anything more than stare with bulging eyes at the weapon, Pena pulled the trigger. The frangible 9mm projectiles tore into the prostrate guard, shoving him across the floor of the small shelter. The power of the rounds almost exploded the man's chest, the cloth blowing into tatters as blood and tissue sprayed across the area.

“Time!” Santiago called out.

“One minute,” answered Falcon as he looked at his watch. Pena handed him back his weapon and Falcon clipped it back into his sling.

The situation at the guard shelter seemed to be under control, so while the men were talking, and Munson was dying, Reyes had turned back to his job. Along one of the poles supporting the fence on the west wall, Reyes was cutting free the chain-link mesh. Using a short pair of bolt cutters he had pulled from the pouch on his left thigh, Reyes had cut free the fencing as high as he could reach. Now, he was doing the same thing along the bottom of the fencing, where it was wired to a pipe running around the edge of the wall.

While Reyes was opening a hole in the fence, Falcon was standing guard, watching across the area of the rooftop with his MP5K-PDW in his hands.

“Here, put these on,” Santiago said as he handed
Pena a set of boots. They were the same kind of Han Way Fly 2000 boots that the rest of the team were wearing. “We can't afford you breaking an ankle when you land wearing those sneakers you have on.”

Stripping off the cheap canvas and rubber sneakers all the prisoners wore, Pena pulled on the boots and laced them up tight. When he looked up, Santiago was holding out a set of protective Centurion pads. The velcro straps that held the pads were quickly secured around Pena's elbows and knees.

“Thirty seconds,” Falcon said.

By this time, Reyes had finished cutting free the fence flap and had pulled it back—securing it in place with a loose piece of wire. Now he was opening up a container that had two pieces of rope tied around it. As he pulled them out, the contents of the container could now be seen to be another parachute rig. As Reyes began to put on his harness, Santiago was holding an identical rig up in front of Pena.

“Now this,” Santiago said as he started to help Pena into his rig.

The parachute systems were Vertigo Warlock containers and harnesses, each container being packed with a specially rigged Dagger 277 canopy. Only Falcon's rig was different, his Warlock container held a Dagger 222 canopy. The systems were specially made for BASE jumping, the low-altitude parachute jumping from buildings, antennas, spans (bridges), and earth (cliffs). Each man strapped into his own harness. Since he was standing guard, Falcon was the last man to don his rig.