Blaze of Glory (35 page)

“Doc teach you that?” Rich asked.

“I saw something similar during my first tour in Iraq.”

“We have company, Boss,” Pete said, his voice rock solid. “They’ve drawn their weapons.”

“Doc, tell them to ditch the hardware. This will be their only warning.” Moyer started for the office. He heard Jose give the order in Spanish.

“Nuthin’ doing, Boss,” Jose said.

“Listen up,” Moyer said into the radio. “Colt, take your shot. The rest of you open up when the first man drops. Conserve your ammo. We have another stop to make.”

J. J. SET THE crosshairs on the last man. He heard Jose shout something, but it had no effect on the approaching men. He put pressure on the trigger. The recoil surprised him—just as it should.

Before J. J. could bring his weapon to bear on another target, the remaining men staggered and collapsed.

“Colt?”

“Clear at the moment, Boss, but some lights have gone on in the apartment building. If we’re going to bug out, now might be a good time.”

“Bug out!” Moyer commanded. “Colt, we’ll meet you in the alley at your location.”

“Roger that, Boss.”

J. J. snapped the bipod back to the barrel and slid down the roof, lowered himself to the inverted trash can and stepped into the alley just as the rest of the team arrived.

“What now, Boss?”

“We go to church, Colt.”

“Really? It’s about time.”

“On the double.” As Moyer started forward, the back door of a small home opened. A young woman looked out.

“Volver en la casa!”

At Doc’s shout, the woman slipped back inside without question.

Rich grinned. “Doc, you have a way with women.”

“Well, Spanish is a romantic language.”

“Let’s move.” Moyer set off in a jog, his men lined up behind him. His mind raced faster than his feet.

J. J.’S STOMACH TURNED. He would never hesitate to do his job just as he had done it, but he never wanted to become so calloused as to not care that he had just killed several men. He had no doubt they would have killed him or any one of this team. Still, dead men littered the streets. Before the night ended, there could be more. He prayed none of those bodies would be his friends.

CHAPTER 37

PADRE GRADOS NOVENOS STOOD in the dark basement, lit only by a forty-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling. Anytime one of the men above walked across the floor, the bulb would sway, sending shadows dancing like demons around an open fire. Those demons did not frighten him; the ones above with guns did.

His eyes traced the forms on the old cots. Both slept fitfully, the man more from illness; the woman more from emotional exhaustion. Thinking about what Lobito’s men might have done to these two made him ill, an illness made worse by his knowledge of what was to become of them. He knew what had happened to the other captives. There was no way he couldn’t know. In a village this small, Padre Grados knew everything. Still he stayed. By choice.

He moved to the woman’s side, removed a simple white rag from a bucket of water, wrung it out, and dabbed it on the woman’s forehead. She was feverish, the result of infection that had set in around the raw and broken skin beneath the shackle around her wrists. At his touch, she awoke.

“Thank you, Father.” She offered the smallest of smiles.

“Shush, child, you must rest.”

“I was dreaming of my daughter.” She closed her eyes, and a tear raced to the dirty, feather pillow. “She was happy and safe.”

“The dream is a gift from God. To help you sleep. Perhaps you will have more good dreams.”

“Are you praying for her, Father? You said you would pray for Delaram.”

“Yes, child, I have been praying for her and for you and your husband. All night I have been praying.”

She raised a manacled hand and touched his wrist. “Why are you here, Father? Of all places in the world, why here?”

He had asked himself the same question. Many times. “I have to be somewhere. I serve the Light and light shines best in darkness. This place needs light.” He didn’t tell her Frontera was his home. He had been born here sixty-two years before and had been baptized in this very church. Frontera was his home. It had always been a poor town, but often people do not know they are poor if they don’t know what others have. That was how it had been for him. Poverty was just a word. His home had no indoor plumbing, but he still had a home.

As a boy he served the priest, helping with daily chores and as an altar boy. When he felt the call of God on his life, the village saved funds to send him to a catholic seminary. He had promised to return—a promise he happily kept.

That was before Lobito came. Lobito. The name made him laugh. Hernando Soto had been a troublesome child who grew into a troublesome adult. For decades Frontera had been as peaceful as it had been poor. Most families lived on sustenance farming, but they still knew how to laugh. Padre Grados couldn’t remember the last time he heard genuine laughter.

Hernando Soto and his brother Michael had changed things. The people only grew drug crops now, with just enough land dedicated to feed their families. Soto stocked the store and paid the workers more than they could get anywhere else. He brought technology to the village, but he took its heart in exchange.

The people had modern medicine, entertainment, and more, but they no longer had their freedom, or happiness. Frontera had become a village of zombies, people who did their work because they had no other choice.

A tiny bit of music worked its way down the basement stairs, the sound of a cell phone ringing in the predawn hours. One of the men answered.

Padre Grados heard the sound of running feet.

“HERNANDO. HERNANDO, GET UP.”

Hernando felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see his brother standing over him. “What is it, Michael?” He sat up.

“Trouble in the village. Armed men. Maybe military.”

“Our guards?”

“I’ve just received a report that seven or eight are dead, maybe more. No one wants to go into the warehouse to count.”

“The warehouse?” Hernando swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“You were right to move the man and woman, brother. If you hadn’t, they might be gone now.”

“What is our status here?” He stood up and reached for a red silk robe.

“There has been no trouble here.”

Hernando thought for a moment. “Send our men down there to help. We’ll be safe here. You stay with me.”

Michael sprinted from the room.

WITH THE LAND CRUISER hidden twenty yards off the long driveway that snaked up a low grade, the driver worked his way through knee-high grass. He avoided the road, staying behind low-lying bushes. Every step brought him closer to his destination. He could see lights glowing on the second floor and from several rooms on the lower floor. He still had a problem. An eight-foot-high chain-link fence ran around the property. To his knowledge, only one gate allowed entry, and it was certain to be guarded. Still he hiked up the grade.

He neared the fence and raised a pair of light-amplifying binoculars to his eyes. First he searched for security cameras and saw several. Next he searched the area near the mansion. Movement caught his eye—rapid movement. A pair of vans were pulling away and driving toward the front gate. He had a decision to make. If he approached the gate, the security cameras would detect him; but if the vans were leaving the premises, then the gates would be open.

Tossing the binoculars to the side, the driver ran toward the gate. As he closed the distance, he pulled a gun from the holster behind his back. He no longer cared if he were seen.

ZINSSER WAS THE CABOOSE in the line, Rich just a few steps before him. Six men moving through hostile territory after a firefight, their only means of transportation was their own boot-laden feet. Their survival depended on the ready status and alertness of each man. Six pairs of eyes could scan a lot of space, peer into a lot of dark corners. Six pairs of ears could hear better than one. Zinsser wasn’t listening, wasn’t watching—but he was seeing and hearing.

The sound of a gun battle fought on a different continent rolled in his brain; ghostly images of wounded soldiers and angry Somalis flooded his eyes. His heart began to pound beyond his present exertion.

Zinsser fought the images, focusing on Rich’s back. He couldn’t fall behind, couldn’t give in to the demons. He began to count his steps. He took notice of his breathing, taking slightly deeper breaths and longer exhalations. His boots pounded the hard dirt.

For the moment he could tell the difference between the gunfire in his head and reality. For the moment. He heard distant, tardy helicopters. He heard Brian Taylor calling his name.

Zinsser smashed into Rich’s back, the abrupt stop jerking him back to reality.

Rich turned. “Ease up, pal.”

“Sorry, big guy. Didn’t see your brake lights.” The words were barely audible.

“You still with us, Data?”

“All the way, Shaq.”

Rich eyed him as if sucking the truth from his mind.

“Data, I’m down.”

Zinsser ignored it. He leaned to the side to see Moyer circle his hand, signaling the men to rally. Zinsser stepped to Moyer’s position.