SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops VI - Guantanamo (12 page)

"The boat, are we still on course?"

"No sweat, I've got it. You need to get inside and rest up. You took a hard knock."

Will grimaced. "In your dreams. We have a long way to go. I'll rest up later."

Eva tried to argue with him, showing concern despite her tough shell.

She's one tough cookie, but maybe inside she's still a woman.

Several times Will insisted on taking his turn at the wheel, and he allowed him to do it. He noticed Eva kept a sharp eye on him and stayed out in the cockpit, despite the drenching from the sea that broke over the boat. The launch was equipped with automatic bilge pumps that ran constantly. Otherwise, they'd have been swamped, no question.

They reached Cancun in the early evening, several hours later than if they hadn't run into the storm. There was no way they could dock in the yacht harbor. A Cuban police boat would have aroused too many awkward questions. Instead, Will found a narrow inlet a couple of kilometers north of the town and drove the boat straight in. It was narrow and too shallow for anything larger than a dinghy, and they only got as far as ten meters before they grounded. The bank of the narrow stream was only inches away from the deck. They were wedged in tight.

"That's as far as we go," Will grunted.

"It's far enough." He looked at Eva. "It's up to you now, you and Vega. We need transport, an SUV or a truck. We also need to try and pick up their trail."

"I can do that," she nodded, "I suggest we abandon the boat and find somewhere out of sight where you can wait until I get back. I want to take Rafael with me. He knows everyone around here."

Brad and John-Wesley emerged from the cabin, dragging the two large canvas holdalls they'd used to pack with weapons and ammunition taken from the cops’ armory in Cuba. Vega came behind them, looking even more fragile and sick than before. He'd obviously found the crossing mighty uncomfortable. He gave him a searching gaze.

"Are you up to carrying on?"

"Madre de Dios, that was a bastard of a trip. I'll be okay. I just need a couple of drinks to steady my nerves. I checked in the cabin, but they don't even carry medicinal brandy."

"Tough. I'd go easy on the sauce if I were you."

Vega stared at him. "What does that mean? You think I'm an alcoholic?"

Nolan said nothing. Finally, the Cuban sighed. "Yeah, okay, I guess I am. But I won't let you down."

He looked as if he was just hours from death, but Nolan made no comment. They had the heavy holdalls containing the weapons onshore, and he stepped off the boat. It felt strange, after so many hours of being tossed around like a cork on the rough seas to be on dry land again. Vega came after him, and then Will. Eva glanced at her friend.

"Rafael, can you walk? We have to go into town to fix things up."

He nodded. "I can walk, at least to the nearest bar. A couple of shots of rum, and I'll be fit enough to take on the world."

She smiled, but behind the expression Nolan could see her eyes staring at the older man with concern. Once again, he was surprised. The ice maiden was melting. They found a quiet place to wait where a bunch of palm trees and scrub reached almost down to the beach. Eva went off with Vega, and they sat on the soft sand beneath the cover of the palms.

"I'll check out the weapons we brought along," Brad said when they were comfortable, "I hope to Christ she brings some food back. I could murder a taco."

"We need to clean and oil our personal weapons," Will told him, "You know what saltwater does to steel."

"Yeah, I know. John-Wesley, lend a hand."

Ryder nodded, pulled one of the bags to him, and started rummaging inside.

"I'll take a look around the area, make sure we're on our own," Nolan told them.

He felt bruised and exhausted, but they were inside Mexico illegally. The last thing they wanted was for some fisherman to stumble across them while he was trying to catch his supper.

The area was quiet, almost peaceful. When the breeze shifted, he could hear mariachi music coming from the direction of Cancun. A resort of luxury hotels and gleaming beaches, cocktails served by white-coated waiters. He felt a twinge of envy. Here they were, cold, wet, beaten up, bruised, and hungry, and hiding from the law. And without the normal backup they would expect from their own people back at Coronado. As situations went, it was shit. Total shit.

* * *

The journey was comfortable, for Señor Montez had provided everything they needed. They were traveling in the back of a stretch limo, driven by a scowling Mexican wearing a shoulder holster who told them his name was Enrico. There was another man in the shotgun seat, Ramon. The passenger was pockmarked, hard-faced, and he made no effort to conceal the MAC-10 he kept on his lap. His job would be to kill anyone who tried to stop them reaching their destination. They were negotiating the tarmac roads that ran from Cancun to Mexico City, Chihuahua, and on to their final destination before the border, Ciudad Juarez. They talked loudly. Harun Rashid had found the minibar and distributed alcohol to the men.

Strict Muslims decry alcohol as contrary to the laws of Allah. But these men had been locked up for a long time inside the harsh confines of Guantánamo Bay, and they'd grabbed the small bottles like kids in a candy store. Nasriri had been sleeping, and when he awoke, it was too late. He frowned and gave them dark looks, but even his number two, Abu Bakr, was imbibing, and already his face was flushed and his eyes dilated.

"Abu, how far have we come?" he snapped.

Bakr stared at him and couldn't prevent the guilt that sprayed over his face as he realized how they'd erred.

"We're a few kilometers outside Mexico City, Omar. We asked the driver to stop soon. We need to take a leak."

Nasriri grunted an acknowledgement. He thought for a moment and then said, "It would be a good idea to find a cafe and drink some strong coffee. We all need our heads clear for what is to come."

A pause. Then he nodded. "Of course, Omar, but we have not reached the cafe yet."

He passed more bottles out to the men, who looked at Nasriri defiantly before they cracked them open and swallowed the contents.

Ten minutes later, they stopped at a dusty roadside traffic stop, a couple of gas pumps and a cantina. It had two floors and a sign outside that said, 'Rooms'. Enrico pulled up to a pump and waited. Nothing happened. The attendant stayed inside the booth. They could see him clearly, nodding as he listened to music through his headphones. With a sigh, he climbed out and pumped the gas, then went to pay at the kiosk. When he came back, he was smiling.

"We're in luck. The cantina is open. They serve food and can supply..." he glanced at their faces and then looked at Ramon, "entertainment. I'm not hungry. I suggest we avail ourselves of what is on offer while these men eat."

"I like the sound of that. Let's go."

The climbed out of the limo and entered the cantina. Nasriri looked around, horrified. It was squalid, poorly lit, with a long battered bar. A couple of girls sat on high stools, looking at the new arrivals with interest.

A whorehouse!

He glared at Enrico.

"This is not a suitable place for us to stop. I'd prefer to..."

"Amigo, this is where we are, and this is where we'll stay. We'll be back in a half hour. You should help yourself to something hot. Me and Ramon intend to."

Both Latinos laughed out loud, strode to the two girls sitting on the stalls, and moments later were following them up the staircase.

Infidels!

He saw half his men watching them with hungry expressions, and the rest were eyeing the shelf behind the bar.

"What'll it be?"

The bar owner stood before him dressed in a dirty T-shirt that had once been white. The printing on his chest stated, 'Mexico, the jewel of South America'.

"We'll take coffees, black, strong."

He counted the men. "All of you? All nine?"

"All of us."

He avoided their looks of disappointment and sat down at a table. His men clustered around and sipped their coffee when it arrived. The cantina was quiet. A couple of Latino truckers over in one corner eating their way through a plate of tacos, and a man on his own drinking from a bottle of beer on his table. He was white and looked like a North American. Nasriri wondered if he would suspect anything. But then again, why should he? They were wearing ordinary civilian clothes, and as far as he knew, their escaped from Gitmo had gone unreported. It would be a blow for American morale if they thought their Islamic prisoners could walk out of the supposedly impregnable prison.

They sat in silence. After half an hour he was concerned about the two men who'd gone with the whores. He was about to suggest Abu go find them when he heard sounds of a ruckus from the top of the staircase; shouting and then screaming, a girl in pain, and another screaming abuse. As he watched, Enrico and Ramon started to descend. They looked as if they'd dressed in a hurry, and their eyes were wide with feral excitement. They walked over to the table.

"We're leaving," Ramon barked.

"Yeah, we need to hurry," Enrico added.

Nasriri looked at both men and felt a growing concern.

Something’s wrong, badly wrong. And that could mean cops.

"What happened up there?"

They didn't get a chance to answer. One of the whores came racing down the staircase and ran over to them. She started beating her fists against Ramon.

"You fucker, you didn't need to do that. You nearly killed her."

He shrugged. "Too bad. Whores should do what their clients tell them. When they don't, they deserve everything they get."

The bar owner join them and looked at the girl. "What’s happened?"

She pointed at Ramon. "That fucker, he cut her. He wanted her to do vile things, and she refused, so he slashed her face. She's bleeding bad. We need to take her to the hospital."

The man thought for a moment, then nodded. He gave her a set of keys.

"Take my SUV. It's parked out back. Give me a call, and let me know what they say. Can she walk?"

She nodded. "She'll manage. I'll use the back staircase, thanks Juan."

She raced away, and he turned to Ramon. "Señor, this is a bad business. You'd better wait. I'm going to call the cops."

He turned away and started walking back to the bar. Ramon's hand dived under his coat and appeared clutching the MAC-10. He pointed it at the bar owner and squirted a short burst into his back. He fell to the floor, bleeding from his wounds, twitched for a few moments, and then he was still. It didn't need a medic to tell any of them he was dead. The other people in the bar, the two truck drivers and the American were frozen, staring at the gunmen and not daring to move.

"Let's go," Enrico urged. He looked at the three customers. "If the cops ask, you never saw anything. Comprendais?"

Three heads nodded. They went to the door and stepped out into the sunshine. The pump attendant was running toward them, his expression puzzled. Clearly, he wanted to know what was happening in the bar. Without thinking, Ramon pumped a half-dozen 9mm bullets into him. The man hit the ground, and he nodded to Enrico. "Lend a hand. We'll pull him inside, out of sight."

The other man shook his head. "No more killing, Ramon. You know what Señor Montez told us. We were supposed to keep this operation quiet."

He chuckled. "Exactly. They will never again utter a single sound. Let's do it."

They dragged the body inside, and the Islamists watched in silence. They came out a few moments later, boarded the limo, and they got on the road.

"That was stupid," Abu murmured, "There was no need for any killing. Now the cops may be looking for us."

Nasriri shrugged. "In this place our friends own the cops. I doubt there'll be any problems. Besides, they were running a brothel. Disgusting! Against all the laws of Allah, they deserved it. If men choose to live that life, they should expect anything they get."

Abu Bakr didn't reply. Perhaps Omar was right, perhaps not. Even so, the killings were unnecessary. There was now the increased risk of law enforcement coming after them. Montez or no Montez. Besides, the last man had done nothing wrong; he was employed to pump gas. Not pimp girls. Killing him served no tactical purpose. It was the act of a violent sociopath. He wondered if he ought to warn Nasriri but thought better of it. If his leader had worked it out, it was unnecessary. And if he hadn't, he may think Abu had gone soft on killing. It was the ultimate crime.

He leaned forward and called to Enrico, "Where are we headed now?"

"All the way to Ciudad Juarez, my friends. We will be driving through the night, so make yourselves comfortable."

"This Ciudad Juarez, it is on the border with the United States of America?"

He laughed. "It sure is. The town is under the control of the cartels, and our friends will have everything ready to get you across the border. Relax, everything's fine. Enjoy the journey."

Abu thanked him and sat back in the seat. However, he didn't relax. He knew they still had to make the crossing into America, and then travel almost the entire length of the country to reach New York City. Even then, their problems wouldn't be over. Not until the final act, an act that would send shockwaves across America, the Great Satan. Across the world, even. Yet they would not see the results of their sacrifice. Once again, he thought about the final blinding explosion that would end their lives. In the blink of an eye, they would become fragments of blood, tissue, and bone, unrecognizable to their own mothers.