Authors: David Graham
Incitement
First published in 2013 by
Andromeda Publishing
Dublin, Ireland
All rights © 2013 David Graham
Paperback | | ISBN: 978 1 909483 42 2 |
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Eighty.
That was how many paces it took to patrol each side of the building. Two years of sentry duty meant he had walked the circuit thousands of times. There was a lot of time to think while working
and, given his nature, that usually meant worrying about one thing or another. But even when his mind was otherwise occupied, he still subconsciously counted off the steps. He went over his
checklist of current troubles. Maria had been unwell lately but she refused to visit the doctor, saying it was a waste of money. His eldest boy had been staying out later and later and he suspected
his son was falling into bad company. More mundanely, as was usually the case, he was struggling financially. The younger children badly needed some new clothes and, once again, there was a problem
with the starter motor on his truck.
Seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty. Turn the corner.
Roberto appreciated what he had. From his early days, scrabbling to make a living in the nearby Mexican border town of Conchillo, to the last couple of years working for El Cártel de
Zaragosa, there had been many reminders of how hard life could be. Some of the things he had seen were better forgotten. Sentry duty might be tedious but it provided for him and his family. His
wife did not like him working for the cartel. She had reluctantly agreed only after he had pledged to limit his participation to guarding the compound outside town. The truth, however, was that all
of them had to sometimes participate in the punishment of those who crossed the cartel. He hated the deception but who could afford to pass up the chance of a steady wage?
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.
Patrol was the worst part of the nightshift. At least if you were inside, you had company and even the chance to catch up on some sleep. Outside, you spent most of the time alone, pacing your
circuit. He didn’t enjoy the violence; he never strutted around as some of the younger men did, infused with the sense of power that came with their brutality. Where he
did
find
common ground with them was on the pointlessness of this monotonous work. Two pairs of men were assigned to each four-hour shift. One patrolled the perimeter fence while the other took care of the
building. The extent of the security didn’t take into account the absence of any threat to the cartel; the dual strategy of intimidation and corruption had worked. Night after night, all this
wasted effort.
Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.
Of course, the amount of effort expended could be disputed. While Roberto’s cautious outlook never allowed him to shirk work, others were less conscientious. Saul was on duty with him
tonight. The traits that made him such a good drinking partner were not suited to the repetitive task at hand. He always tried to get by with the minimal amount of effort and, had it not been for
an influential relative within the cartel, he wouldn’t have lasted long. Saul felt his mission was to get drunk and to get laid as often as possible. Life’s too short for worry, he
said. Despite their basic differences, Roberto enjoyed his carefree co-worker’s company.
Fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six.
Maybe he could get Goyo to come over tomorrow morning. His neighbour had worked as a mechanic briefly and might be able to resurrect the vehicle. As for Juan, he would sit down with the boy,
talk to him as an equal and convince him that these friends were not the kind he should have. Maria, though, would be more difficult; her stubbornness was renowned but he would win her over.
Seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven.
Roberto was almost at the corner when a patch of darkness detached from its surroundings and moved languidly towards him. “So how many beers did you have tonight?” he asked,
laughing.
It happened slowly, like a dream where you are unable to wake up. He felt his head being pulled forward and could not muster the strength to resist. What was Saul doing? This kind of horseplay
wasn’t funny, the grip at the back of his neck hurt. A dull impact hit him just above the chest and he felt himself being dragged down as if by a heavy current. His legs buckled, and the
figure followed him to the ground. He felt the hot breath on his face and caught the smell of mint. The strong grip slowed his descent, breaking his fall, for which he felt strangely grateful. He
tried to speak but there was no sound except a soft rasping. That wasn’t him, was it? The hand on his neck tightened, then he heard something being torn.
Larsen had watched the compound for three days. The men were eager to get on with it but he wouldn’t be rushed. When they had arrived they already had a detailed plan of
attack based on meticulously researched intelligence. They had drilled repeatedly at another location, preparing for the mission and gelling as a team. Despite this, he had insisted on waiting
until he was totally satisfied that all of their objectives could be met. His involvement with this mission had started months earlier and he wasn’t about to waste all that time because of
some small oversight. Years of experience had taught him the value of patience.
Just before dusk on the fourth day, he saw the final component slot into place. Lowering his binoculars, he closed his eyes briefly and reminded himself of what he had learned about the green,
yellow and red.
He signalled the men over and gave the order to go.
Two of the men moved down the hill, approaching the compound on opposite sides as closely as cover allowed. The last team member remained with Larsen, who was watching the sentries, waiting for
them to hit their mark before giving the signal to fire. The snipers were equipped with M24 SWS Remingtons, which had mounted on them Litton Aquila X6 night-vision devices. The sentries, just
inside the perimeter fence, were less than a hundred metres away, comfortably within the snipers’ range. The subsonic ammunition ensured neither of the sentries closer to the building were
alerted.
Once he had confirmed the kills, Larsen and the other man each moved to join the snipers and both pairs of men advanced towards the fence. Notwithstanding the limited range of the video
surveillance cameras mounted on the building, there were other dangers. Occasionally, the guards assigned to building patrol would break with procedure and head out to the fence to talk with their
co-workers. This random sloppiness unwittingly increased the difficulty of the attack. Powerful bolt cutters made short work of the fence and within seconds they had covered the open ground to the
building. Larsen’s companion watched as he dispatched the more dutiful guard on their side of the building while the other pair took care of his counterpart.
The remoteness of the location meant there were no fixed telephone lines to worry about, and activating the mobile jammer completely cut the building off from the outside world. Rather than use
the traditional strip explosives on the two reinforced doors, they employed Simon Grenade Rifles. The doors were literally blasted from their hinges, becoming dangerous missiles as they flew
inwards. The impact when they came to rest added to the panic and confusion of those inside. Two of the attackers headed straight for the video surveillance room. The only guard there, who had been
slumped in front of the monitors, was wrenched from his slumber by the deafening explosions. Before he could gather his thoughts, a burst from a Micro Uzi 9 mm ripped through him.