Smoke and Shadow (29 page)

“
What happened
in Barmeja?
”
Nikki
tried to talk to Baker and ignore Rose, but the drunk refused to be
marginalized.

“
Yeah, tell her
that story. Tell her what we
’
ve really been doing all these
months.
”

“
Tell us
anything that will make this bitch shut up.
”
Ria drained her fourth or fifth
Corona and shot Rose a murderous glare. Baker, as always, remained
calm as he responded.

“
After you
recruited Diego Velazquez, we began to get intel on the trade
routes for Los Zetas human trafficking. I sent Trent in to verify
the information and he found himself in a tight
spot
…”

Book Six: The Rules of
Engagement

Summer 2014

Trent froze when a pair of bright
yellow headlights bounced through the darkness on the road beyond
the beach. The glow bathed the sand and the rolling waves in a
fleeting contrast of light and shadow. Staying submerged under the
surf for a few extra moments felt like a small price to pay. The
ocean around Barmeja had a warmth that made this insertion better
than most. He could stay in the water a few extra moments if it
helped him save his life.

When the red tail lights vanished
around a bend in the road, Trent emerged from the water. He kept
his body crouched low to the sand and his M4 held high on his
shoulder. The SCUBA gear on his back and the tubes connecting it to
his mask and regulator made his silhouette resemble a sea creature
invading the beach. Trent dropped to his belly near an outcropping
of seaweed covered stone and waited, but no one on Barmeja appeared
to notice his invasion.

He used Neoprene
covered fingers to activate his head gear. The light enhancing
goggles bathed his vision in radar green, revealing a narrow
expanse of rough beach, the single lane dirt trail of a road and
the dense forest beyond it. The scene conformed to the satellite
images Trent studied before his insertion. Leaves rustled and
branches swayed in the sea breeze, but Trent
didn
’
t see any
movement to indicate a guard post or sniper nest.
Baker
’
s
intelligence reports and his satellite images
didn
’
t show any
fixed positions either, but Trent needed to be sure. A lot of men
walked into ambushes based on bad sat data. Trent
didn
’
t plan on
making himself a casualty of the remote intelligence
experts.

So he scanned the
road again, looking for the sudden movement or out of place detail
a potential threat might create. He didn
’
t see any problems. He switched the
optical array on his head gear to infrared. The world went black
again. No warm bodies or other heat sources popped up as he passed
through his third scan. Trent knew of ways a sentry team could use
to evade thermal scans, but he couldn
’
t sit here until sunrise looking for
trouble. At some point, he
’
d have to leave the safety of the
shore and go looking for it.

He slipped a
phone sized GPS out of his web belt and held his hand over the
screen to check his location. According to the digital signal,
he
’
d arrived at
the insertion point plus or minus about two hundred yards. The
results weren
’
t
good enough for SEAL qualification but reality had a way of being
more forgiving than the dive masters. Trent craned his neck up to
take in the stars. A thick cover of clouds obscured all celestial
light. He landed in the right spot, avoided contact and had the
cover of darkness for his movements. Trent lifted himself off the
sand and went to work.

He removed and
secured his SCUBA gear with slow efficient movements. The body
memory of dozens of amphibious night insertions gave him the
ability to handle his equipment in the dark, but he kept the night
vision on as an extra precaution. When he was ready to travel on
dry land, he checked all the gear on his person, making sure he
didn
’
t lose
anything during his swim and making sure everything would stay
secure as he moved. Then he wrapped the SCUBA equipment in a
seaweed covered camo bag, positioned it near the rocks and covered
it in loose seaweed as additional concealment. He made one last
check on his weapon, camera and other gear before turning towards
the road.

Then he spotted the foot patrol
coming towards him on the beach.

The two sentries
walked close to the road, about a hundred and fifty feet from his
position. The beams of their flashlights wandered in random arcs on
the road and the beach. Instead of focusing on their patrol, they
carried on a loud conversation in gruff, aggressive Spanish. They
seemed too far away to see him and they sounded too distracted to
notice him, but Trent didn
’
t take any chances. He
wasn
’
t willing to
face the AK-47
’
s
slung over their shoulders. If either of them got off a shot, the
sound could carry for miles. Trent couldn
’
t afford to kick over a
hornet
’
s nest, so
he pulled out his rifle, remained prone, and kept quiet. Only his
eyes moved as he tracked the path of his unwanted
guests.

The sentries
didn
’
t shine their
lights near Trent
’
s rocks as they passed in front of him. They seemed content
to stick close to the road, grumble at each other and keep their
flashlights focused in front of them. Trent felt his muscles tense,
waiting for the moment they might turn and fire on him in a counter
ambush, but the sudden violence never came. After a few breathless
seconds, the sentries had their backs to him. One of them even
barked out a gruff laugh as they continued into the
darkness.

Trent felt a
surge of adrenaline when he saw the opportunity for surprise. Under
different circumstances, he
’
d slip behind these men and take
them down with point blank shots to the back of the head. He saw
himself slither up behind his victims and ending their lives in
mid-sentence. He could drag them to the rocks. Their bodies
wouldn
’
t be found
until long after he was gone. But Baker wanted zero contact
tonight; no witnesses, no casualties and no corpses. Trent clenched
his jaw and ignored the invitation to violence. The sentries ambled
along the beach as Trent pulled himself up to a low crouch and
moved toward the tree line.

Trent
’
s
pattern through the thick underbrush maximized his awareness and
minimized his impact on his surroundings. He kept still, reaching
out with his eyes, ears, nose and subconscious instinct in an
attempt to detect any hostile intent in the area. He searched for
everything from a guerilla with a machine gun to a puma stalking
its next kill. He emerged from his hiding spot only when the
natural sounds and shapes of the forest told him it was safe to
move.

He melted deeper into the woods. He
kept his stance low to reduce his size as a target. He stepped with
light pressure to avoid magnifying the noise his boots made on the
blanket of wet leaves covering the ground. He left branches
undisturbed as he weaved among the trees. He stayed close to the
larger trunks for cover, in case an unseen enemy popped up and
started shooting. The stealth in his stride continued for a few
steps and then Trent froze behind new cover, absorbing his
surroundings again to repeat the process.

Trent prowled
this remote area for two hours trying to discover its secrets. He
looked for the footpaths the slave traders might use to drag their
victims away from the beach. He listened for the cries of beaten
women and the smell of broken bodies. He tried to find a place
hidden from both the distant eyes of satellites and the
uninterested authority of the Mexican Navy. If Los Zetas hid a
slave warehouse in Barmeja, it was Trent
’
s job to find it.

But maybe the
slave pit didn
’
t
exist. The intel for this mission came from an unreliable source
acting under duress. No official records existed in the Mexican
police files. No one in the nearby village would talk about what
happened out here. The slave pit could just be one
man
’
s delusion.
Maybe there was no central spot where slaves from Africa, South
America and Eastern Europe would find themselves cataloged and
stored until Los Zetas shipped them to their final destinations.
Maybe Trent risked his life for an elaborate lie told by a bitter
man with a score to settle. It wouldn
’
t be the first time. Countries
invaded each other and thousands of people could die because of one
man
’
s lie. Trent
continued to hunt in the shadows. He tried to find what
couldn
’
t be found
and avoid wasting anyone
’
s life, especially his
own.

After another half hour in the
pitch black forest, the sound of a broken woman led Trent to his
target. He heard her whimpers over the midnight breeze and the
harsh grunts of an aggressive Spanish male. Bouncing behind one
tree and moving to the next, Trent approached the sound with his M4
held high and ready. In the radar green of his night vision, he saw
them.

One small man with his back to
Trent and his pants around his knees crouched over an even smaller
girl with bare, frail legs pulled open and squirming in futile
protest. The rapist had his victim lying on her back. The wet
blanket of leaves clung to her dirty legs. He thrust into her with
all the violence of a man who hated women. Who else buys and sells
slaves? What other type of animal could be so deserving of a quick
stab in the kidneys? Trent slid his weapon down to the secure
position on his back. When his hand came up again, it held his
knife.

Trent took silent
steps towards his target, evaluating him and his surroundings as he
moved. The rapist had his back exposed. He showed no signs of
awareness. Trent recognized the behavior. Most men lost their sense
of space and security during sex. This monster followed the
familiar pattern. His AK-47 was within reach. He had a back-up
pistol holstered to his belt. But weapons have no use without the
awareness and ability to use them. Trent
’
s knife held the clear advantage
against an unsuspecting foe.

Only a few feet
separated the men when the memory of his mission made him hesitate.
He wasn
’
t here to
save a slave girl from rape. He needed to find the slave pit or
prove it doesn
’
t
exist. He couldn
’
t
leave any witnesses, casualties or corpses. The fate of hundreds of
women and children might come down to his ability to get in and out
unseen. This wasn
’
t about one girl. He had to consider the bigger
picture.

Trent stood close
enough to smell their sex mixing with the wet leaves. The
rapist
’
s grunts
clashed with the victim
’
s crying to create a terrible assault on
Trent
’
s ears. He
could see the girl
’
s matted hair over the rapist
’
s shoulder. The long dark strands
stuck to her face and hid her tears. She was a teenager, maybe a
year younger than Trent
’
s daughter. The thought of his own lost child pulled him
closer to them. The idea of this man raping Jessica became bigger
than a mission for a target he couldn’t
find.

But how many men
used war as a pretense to attack women? In the whole history of
warfare, how many days and nights went by without a girl being
attacked, abused or killed by soldiers of all types on either sides
of a conflict? Trent remembered the blood on his own hands and the
women who died because of him. He saw the young girl who died naked
and on her knees the night he murdered a gang lord. The look in
Summer Rain
’
s eye
when he shot her couldn
’
t be blamed on someone else
’
s gun. Saving this girl
wouldn
’
t change
anything for the women who suffered during war and it
couldn
’
t wash away
Trent
’
s combat
crimes either.