Suicide Mission (21 page)

“Are you kidding?” Catalina asked as a smile broke out on her face. “I'm in. You'd better believe I'm in!”

It was the next morning. Bill had changed his mind about asking her immediately and decided to sleep on it instead, but when he got up nothing had changed. Megan's suggestion still made sense. If there was anything that might increase the chances of the mission being successful, they had to do it.

“It's gonna be damn dangerous,” Bill warned her as they stood in the shade of one of the hangars beside the landing strip. Bill was waiting for the chopper that would deliver the final two members of the team.

“More dangerous than having Estancia's mad-dog killers after me, like they were back in Cuidad Acuña and Del Rio?”

“There'll be more of 'em,” Bill said, “and plenty of terrorists smuggled in from the Middle East, too. They're even worse because they hate all Americans. The cartel just wants to make a profit off of us.”

Catalina said, “Well, it's lucky for me, then, that I'm a Mexican and not an American, right?”

“They're not gonna care that much. If you get in their way, they'll kill you, no matter where you're from.”

“I'll take that chance. I want to do something to stop those people, Bill.” She paused. “Marty wanted to stop them, too, but he can't do anything anymore. He's dead, and they're to blame.”

“You were mighty fond of him, weren't you?”

She shrugged and said, “He was a loser in most ways. I hate to say it, but he was. But he really loved me, I think, and that buys him some revenge.”

“All right,” Bill said. “We've only got a few days to get you ready, though. They're gonna be rough ones.”

“Bring them on,” she said with a grin. “I'll do whatever I need to.”

Bill found himself believing her, too. Before he could say any more, though, he heard the distant
whup-whup-whup
of a helicopter's rotors.

The chopper came into view against the cloud-dotted blue sky. This was one of the bigger jobs, probably because a lot of guards were needed for the two passengers it was carrying. Bill had half a dozen men armed with riot shotguns on hand himself, including John Bailey and Wade Stillman, just in case.

Dust flew as the helicopter settled down to a landing. Bill turned to Catalina and said, “You can go on back to your quarters now. I'll come see you in a little while and we'll get started on your training.”

“If you think I'm going to leave now, you're loco,” she said. “I've heard the rumors about these two. I want to get a look at them for myself.”

Bill debated making his suggestion an order instead, then decided it wasn't worth making an issue over it. Besides, he saw other people walking toward the landing strip, including Megan, Henry Dixon, Nick Hatcher, Braden Cole, and Jackie Thornton.

It appeared that everybody on the base had heard about Madigan and Watson and wanted to get a look at them.

Several guards climbed out of the helicopter first and set up in a half-circle with their automatic weapons pointing back toward the aircraft. One of them spoke into a radio microphone clipped to his shoulder.

A moment later a massive figure appeared in the doorway and hopped down to the tarmac, landing with a lithe grace and ease that was unusual in such a big man. Bill had seen photos of Ellis “Bronco” Madigan, so he had no trouble recognizing the man. Even in dark blue prison trousers and a faded blue shirt, Madigan was an impressive, unforgettable figure.

So was the man who followed Madigan from the helicopter. He was a black version of Bronco Madigan. Calvin Watson would probably take offense if anyone phrased it that way in his presence, but it was true nonetheless.

Both men wore old-fashioned shackles. Most law enforcement agencies had long since made the change to plastic restraints, but in some cases, steel was just better. Plastic would hold normal human beings, but not Neanderthals like Madigan and Watson.

More gun-toting guards descended from the chopper behind them, so the two convicts were completely surrounded. One of the guards snapped an order, and the whole group started toward the hangar where Bill and the others waited.

“They don't look so tough,” Bailey said under his breath.

Bill recognized the tone of competitiveness in the big noncom's voice. He said, “As long as we're all on the same side, John, we won't have to worry about who's the toughest.”

“I didn't mean it that way, sir,” Bailey said quickly, even though Bill knew good and well that he had.

Nick Hatcher stood in a casual pose with his hands tucked into the hip pockets of his jeans. He said, “They look plenty tough to me.”

“Me, too,” Jackie Thornton agreed. “I sure wouldn't want to tangle with them.” He looked nervous, as if he knew that either of the newcomers could break him in two with their bare hands. Thornton's normal expression was always a little nervous, though, Bill reminded himself.

Braden Cole's face was expressionless. That was normal, too. The explosives expert had about as much personality as a snake.

The guards fanned out a little as they approached so that Bill could confront Madigan and Watson. When the group had come to a stop, he nodded to the two prisoners and said, “You fellas and I haven't met before, but you talked to an associate of mine.”

Clark had handled the negotiations with Madigan and Watson, since it was easier for him to get into the high-security federal facility where they were being held. Bill had been busy making arrangements for their staging area to be located here at the old abandoned Air Force base.

Madigan rumbled, “You talkin' about a fella looks like he ought to be an insurance salesman?”

“We killed and ate him,” Watson added.

Bill's eyes narrowed. He said, “They told me you two were a couple of badasses who hated each other's guts. Come to find out you're a comedy team.”

“You let us worry about who we hate, mister,” Madigan said. “Right now I'd say you're on the list.”

“Damn straight,” Watson said.

“You're gonna hate me even more,” Bill said. “I'm your new boss.”

Madigan let loose with an obscene tirade that would have scorched the paint off a Sherman tank. When he finished, Watson took the profanity baton and carried on. The cussing started off being directed at Bill, but eventually it came around to Megan and Catalina and what the two convicts would like to do to them.

Bailey had listened with a tight jaw at first, but when the newcomers started verbally assaulting the two women, he stepped forward and snapped, “Shut your filthy mouths.”

“Hey!” Catalina objected. “We can defend ourselves, thank you very much.”

“Are you kidding?” Megan said. “I'm all for equality and I've taken care of myself for years, but those two are humongous. No way I'm tangling with them. Bailey, you go right ahead and be chivalrous.”

Bill stepped forward, moving between Bailey and the two convicts.

“Let 'em spout their filth,” he said. “They're just blowin' off steam because they know we've got the upper hand.”

“Upper hand, hell,” Madigan repeated with a sneer. “You can't make us do anything we don't want to do.”

“That's right. If you don't want to cooperate and be part of this, you can climb back in that chopper and it'll take you back where you came from. But you can kiss that deal you agreed to good-bye. No new lives for you fellas.”

Watson said, “I don't believe it anyway. That's just one more empty promise from the government.”

“Most of the time I'd agree with you. The government's word's not worth a hill of beans, at least not with the people who're runnin' it now. Lyin' comes as natural to them as breathin'.”

“Then why do you care what happens?” Madigan asked.

“Because it's not about those worthless sacks o' left-wing shit in Washington,” Bill said. “It's about the millions of good people who still live in this country, the ones who try to do something worthwhile with their lives and make the world a better place instead of sittin' around with their hands out for whatever some empty suit promises to give 'em. The deck is already stacked against honest folks like that, stacked by the very people who are supposed to be representin' them. They got enough problems here at home without havin' to worry about a bunch of bloodthirsty relics from the Middle Ages who want to murder 'em in their beds and some slick criminals who want to squeeze every drop of blood and profit out of 'em. That's why I care, Madigan.”

Silence followed Bill's words. Watson broke it by saying, “You been workin' on that speech for a while, haven't you, you old geezer?”

“When you call me that . . . smile.”

Bill figured it was safe to use the Owen Wister quote. Henry Dixon was the only other person on the base old enough to recognize it.

The only response it got, though, was another flood of curses from both convicts. After a moment Bailey said to Bill, “Let me beat some decency into them. That's the only thing they're going to understand.”

Madigan hooted with laughter and said, “Boy, you couldn't beat your own—”

“No, we're not gonna go there,” Bill cut in. “They want to be turned loose to settle things man to man. They figure if they pull that trick, they can double-cross us, get their hands on some guns, and fight their way out of here. But this isn't some cowboy movie, gentlemen. This isn't Yuma Prison, and you sure as hell aren't the good guys. You're gonna stay under lock, key, and heavy guard until we get where we're goin'. You don't need any special training. All you need is an enemy, and I'm gonna give you one. And when we get there,
then
you get turned loose. I'm gonna point you in the right direction and say ‘Kill,' and you're gonna do it.”

Watson sneered and said, “Maybe we'll just cut a deal with that so-called enemy. Maybe we'd rather be on their side than yours.”

“A deal goes two ways, and where we're goin', nobody will be interested in makin' one with you boys. They're just gonna try to kill you on sight, and they won't stop to do any talkin'. So you'll fight them or die. Simple as that.”

Bill's calm, steady words had an effect. He could tell that, even though Madigan and Watson tried to keep up their façade. They knew he was telling the truth.

“Maybe we don't want to do this anymore,” Madigan said.

“Too late. You're part of it. You're goin' along whether you want to or not.”

He turned on his heel and walked away, adding over his shoulder an order for the guards to lock them up. The rest of the team followed him, leaving Madigan and Watson behind to shout curses after them.

Now that he had met the two convicts, he was willing to make an exception to his all-volunteer policy. Facing such heavy odds, he needed a couple of killing machines like Bronco Madigan and Calvin Watson.

With any luck, those two would be his own personal weapons of mass destruction.

 

The dust and the heat were stifling as Bill swayed slightly on the uncomfortable, thinly upholstered bench seat of the Mexican bus. The upholstery was torn in several places and patched with duct tape. The window beside him was lowered, but that didn't really help much because the air outside was just as hot as that inside the bus.

The breeze coming through the open window didn't dispel the stink inside the bus, either. It just stirred up the various elements of it.

Nor did the noise help matters, starting with the racket coming from the bus's ancient and ineffective muffler. Adding to it was the loud cackling from several crates of chickens resting in the backseats of the vehicle and the strains of
Tejano
music coming from an old-fashioned boom box on the lap of one of the passengers.

“Really?” Bailey had muttered as he, Bill, and Catalina had climbed on board the bus and found places to sit. “Chickens and mariachi music on a Mexican bus?”

“At the next stop somebody will get on with a goat,” Catalina said. “You just wait and see. We Mexicans live to fulfill your gringo stereotypes. Anyway, that's not mariachi music. It's
Tejano
.”

“I'm from Brooklyn. It all sounds the same to me.”

“Again with the stereotypes!”

Bill hadn't told them to cut out the banter. That was a way of blowing off steam. Knowing what they might be headed into, they had to be a little nervous, especially Catalina. Despite the tough front she put up and the actual dangers she had faced in her life, she had never gone to war, like Bill and John Bailey had.

And war was exactly what they were facing if they made it into Barranca de la Serpiente. A short and bloody conflict, but war nonetheless.

They were about an hour out of the small town of Villa Guajardo, bound for Dos Caballos, which was another two hours away. The day before they had ridden from Dos Caballos to Villa Guajardo, and the trip had been uneventful except for the jolting Bill's spine had gotten from the bus's worn-out suspension. Tomorrow, if they had to, they would make the return trip from Dos Caballos.

Eventually somebody might notice them riding back and forth this way, but the bus driver didn't pay much attention to his passengers. Bill had smelled the pungent scent of marijuana coming from the man's threadbare uniform and figured the hombre was high. He could keep the bus on the road all right—the fact that it was flat and straight for the most part helped—but he didn't care what was going on in the seats behind him.

The highway was narrow and pockmarked with potholes, but they were small ones. It didn't rain enough in this region to cause large potholes. The countryside was semiarid. The people who lived here scratched out livings on small farms, but they weren't good livings.

The mountains of the Sierra Madre Oriental loomed to the west of the road. The terrorist training camp was somewhere up there in one of the valleys hidden among the peaks, Bill knew. Finding it would be almost impossible if you didn't know where you were going.

That was why he and Bailey and Catalina were going to let their enemies take them there.

Bill wore a battered straw Stetson, a faded khaki work shirt with the sleeves rolled up, jeans, and boots that showed plenty of wear and tear. With his craggy face, salt-and-pepper hair and mustache, and weathered skin, he looked like an old farm or ranch hand. He sat by the window and Catalina sat beside him, next to the aisle.

She wore a sleeveless white blouse, jeans, and sneakers. Her thick brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She called Bill “
Tio
” when she spoke to him, reinforcing the pose that they were uncle and niece. They were supposedly on their way to the next town to look for work.

Bailey rode in the seat directly behind them, taking up the whole bench himself. Even if he hadn't been so big, nobody would have wanted to sit next to the scary-looking gringo. Dark shades covered his eyes. The sleeves were cut off the blue denim work shirt he wore with a metal-studded leather vest over it. His bare arms were covered with elaborate tattoos. They weren't permanent, but they would last long enough to serve their purpose. He had a revolver stuck in the waistband of his jeans; the vest partially covered the butt, but by design it was visible part of the time, too. He was supposed to look
muy malo
, so people would leave him alone.

If the cartel was really kidnapping men to use in training the Arab terrorists, Bailey would make an irresistible target. He looked like he could actually put up a fight. The kidnappers wouldn't want pushovers.

Bill looked tough enough to take with them, too. And Catalina . . . well, Catalina was still beautiful, even in cheap clothes and no makeup. The cartel wouldn't hesitate to grab her and force her into a life of being a
puta
for their own men and their Middle Eastern guests.

Before they'd left the base in West Texas to make their way unobtrusively into Mexico with forged passports that said Bill and Catalina were Mexican nationals named Hector and Maria Lopez and Bailey was an American named Pete Ericsson, the GPS chips had been implanted under their skin, right at the hairline on the back of the neck so the tiny incisions wouldn't be noticeable.

“The chances of them scannin' us for any sort of signal is pretty small,” Bill had said to Megan, “but what if they do?”

“We're the only ones in the world with equipment sophisticated enough to pick up the signal from these transmitters,” she had assured him. “The frequency is so narrow and the bursts are so short that anything else will just scan right past it. Our satellite will stay locked in on it, though.”

Bill had looked at Clark and said, “That must've been expensive. How'd you manage to get a satellite like that up there when money for the space program would be so much better spent at social engineerin'?”

“What the blowhard-in-chief doesn't know might just save the country,” Clark had replied. “Besides—and this is so far off the record it can't even
see
the record—not all of our funding comes strictly from congressional appropriations anymore. There are individuals in this country who are willing to foot the bill for things that really need to get done that might not otherwise. 'Nuff said?”

“'Nuff said,” Bill had agreed. He suspected that Hiram Stackhouse was one of those individuals Clark was talking about, but he wasn't going to press the issue. The fewer details he knew about things like that, the better.

Now, even though he couldn't feel it, Bill knew the chip was there in the back of his neck, and he took comfort in the fact that the rest of his team knew where he was.

Of course, if he got into trouble they were too far away to come and help him right away. He would just have to survive until the cavalry could get there, and that might take hours. Maybe even a day or longer, depending on where they wound up.

Wade Stillman was in Dos Caballos with Megan, Nick Hatcher, Jackie Thornton, and Braden Cole, all of them holed up in the hotel there. Bill worried a little about Wade and Megan having to ride herd on the trio of civilian criminals, but Hatcher and Thornton seemed eager to cooperate and earn their shot at new lives. With Cole it was hard to tell anything about what he was thinking, of course, but Bill knew the man prided himself on his professionalism. Cole had hired on to do a job, and Bill thought he would honor that bargain.

Madigan and Watson were still across the border, being watched over by Henry Dixon and a squadron of guards. When the time came to move, Dixon and the two convicts would be brought in by helicopter. That would mean violating Mexico's airspace, but nobody really gave a damn about that. Mexico was violating common decency by allowing the drug cartels to basically run the country and inviting in a bunch of Middle Eastern lunatics to help them attack the U.S.

The man taking up space in the Oval Office might not like it, but nobody involved in this mission really gave a damn about
him
, either.

Too bad they couldn't just locate the terrorist camp and call in an airstrike on it, Bill mused. A little hellfire raining down from the heavens on the sons of bitches. Something like that took even more juice than Clark had, though. This had to be a surgical strike instead.

And Bill and his team were the surgeons.

Bailey leaned forward and asked Catalina, “Hey, baby, since we got music, you want to dance?”

She turned to look at him and laughed.

“You really should leave me alone, gringo,” she told him. They weren't supposed to know each other; they had just made each other's acquaintance on this bus ride. But being slightly obnoxious fit in with the role Bailey was playing, so he kept trying to flirt with her.

Bill wasn't sure how much of it was acting. Back at the old air base, Bailey and Catalina had spent quite a bit of time together. During the several days of training she had gone through, most of it had been spent working with Bailey and Wade Stillman on hand-to-hand combat and weapons practice, and Bill had a hunch a little romantic triangle had sprung up there. Both young men had checked out Megan Sinclair when she arrived at the base, but her cool exterior might as well have been a neon sign reading HANDS OFF.

Bailey said, “Come on, you can teach me some of those
Tejano
dances. Isn't that what you called the music?”

“Where are we going to dance? In the aisle? There's not enough room for that!”

“Well, you could give me a lap dance,” Bailey suggested.

From the corner of his eye, Bill saw how Catalina's head snapped around. Bailey had gone too far in his little game. With Catalina's background, that was the wrong thing to say.

Bailey must have realized it, too, because he went on hastily, “Hey, I didn't mean—”

Bill had seen something from the corner of his other eye, too. He said, “That's enough,” cutting in on Bailey's apology. “Looks like we've got company comin'.”

Off to the west, toward the mountains, a plume of dust rose into the air. Either somebody was driving fast along a dirt road over there, or they were coming across open country. Either way, they were going to intercept the bus.

The driver didn't seem to notice, but some of the passengers did. Frightened cries rang out. All the people who lived in this area knew about the holdups and the kidnappings, but sometimes they had to get from one place to another and had no choice except to take the bus.

Bill could make out several vehicles at the foot of that dust cloud now. He counted three SUVs and two jeeps. There was no doubt in his mind that Megan's intel was about to pay off. A caravan like that wouldn't be speeding toward the highway unless it belonged to the cartel.

The driver saw the onrushing vehicles at last and floored the gas in a futile attempt to get ahead of the attackers. The bus's engine labored and sputtered and sped up a little, but not nearly enough.

The jeeps bounded ahead of the SUVs, reached the highway first, and whipped into skidding turns that left them blocking both lanes of the narrow road. The bus driver turned the wheel a little, like he was thinking about trying to leave the highway and go around the jeeps, but he swerved back as the wheels touched the sand. It was impossible. If the bus got off the pavement it would either bog down or turn over.

He had no choice but to stand on the brake and bring the bus to a shuddering, shrieking, rubber-burning stop.

One of the jeeps had a .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the back of it. The passenger leaped behind the gun and fired a burst that chewed into the asphalt in front of the bus. Hysterical screaming filled the bus now as all the passengers realized what was going on.

Bill looked at the machine gun and knew that his earlier musings had been correct. This was war, all right.

And as armed men leaped from the SUVs and charged toward the bus, he knew that the war was on.