Target Deck - 02 (4 page)

Deckard looked on, confused as the assault trucks raced down the road. A small handful of uniformed Mexican police officers ran across the road and disappeared into the night. They had seen the muzzle flashes as they neared the compound and were prepared for an ambush. Apparently, they had thought better of it.

Reaching over, he grabbed Pat by the shirt sleeve.

“What the hell was that about?”

6

Five minutes later, the Samruk International mercenaries guarding the gate moved aside, letting the two Iveco assault vehicles into the compound. The soldiers of fortune were hard at work unloading equipment, building defensive positions on the roof tops, pulling rotations on guard duty, and other preparations for their latest campaign.

Deckard jumped off the back of his truck and frowned, seeing a figure approaching from Ortega's villa on crutches, limping his way towards him.

“I thought I told you to stay in Astana, Frank.”

“I know, but I stowed away on one of the supply trucks anyway. I'll be damned if I was going to spend another day locked up in that damned hangar.”

After a labyrinthine journey from their previous mission in the Pacific Ocean back to their headquarters in the capital of Kazakhstan, the wounded Samruk International members had been evacuated to the hospital. The few who were still able to walk were immediately paid and put on indefinite leave. Frank was discharged from the hospital a week later, having been treated for several gunshot wounds. Others, like Charles Rochenoire were still laid up, recovering from more serious injuries.

He and Deckard had spent the next month recovering from their injuries in a hangar at the Astana airport where all of the PMC's equipment was being stored. Deckard had often half joked that considering the nature of their previous mission, he expected a JDAM to land in his lap at any day now. Amazingly, that day had not come.

Mostly they had sat around drinking beer and playing spades.

“I had a feeling you might say that.”

“Playing solitaire in a empty hanger just isn't my thing.”

“You should have seen what happened on the way here. The most half assed ambush I've ever seen. They fired before we were anywhere near the kill zone, then dropped their weapons and ran as we finally rolled up to them.”

“Chicken shit motherfuckers,” Frank laughed. “Hey, what's that?”

Deckard followed his gaze over to Samantha hefting a oversized bale of money out of the truck.

“What? Samantha or the money?”

“Both.” But Deckard could almost see the dollar signs forming in his eyes.

Walking towards her, Frank whipped out his folding knife, ready to cut through the layers of cellophane wrapped around the stacks of greenbacks. Deckard caught his wrist, stopping the blade a few inches from the plastic wrapping.

“Watch yourself.”

“What's the idea, dude? We just want our pay day, you know, on account of how hard you got us working.”

“Bullshit,” Deckard grunted. “The cartels put ammonia and bleach between the layers of wrapping so that when dumb asses like you try to cut through them, the two chemicals mix and create chlorine gas. Sends a message to any of their couriers who decided to skim a little off the top, same goes for enemies who might manage to acquire some cartel cash.”

“Fuck me.”

“Where are our protective masks?”

“I think they're still on the back of the deuce and half,” Frank said referring to the two and half ton cargo trucks that he had arrived with.

Deckard had ordered literally tons of gear, a battalion's worth. Now that battalion had been decimated down to a little over two platoons, they were left with a surplus of gas masks among other military items.

“Get a couple guys to put those masks on and open these bales up on the roof. Since you are so enthusiastic, and crippled, you just became the unit treasurer and pay agent. Tomorrow, you can have the boys line up and collect their paycheck.”

Frank looked hurt, but for once held back his unsolicited commentary.

Slipping out of his plate carrier, Deckard set the body armor down in the corner of Ortega's living room next to his AK-103 which was left propped up against the wall. He kept his pistol belt in place, knowing it was important to keep some critical items on his person at all times. The belt held his
Kimber 1911
pistol and holster, as well as several grenades, escape and evasion gear, and a few other bare necessities.

The living room was in the process of being converted into Samruk's Operations Center or OPCEN. Hard cases had been flung open, wires tangled across the carpet, computers were already plugged in and humming quietly.

A young man moved across the room, fumbling with the computer equipment in short, jerking motions. Starting up an electronic projector, he connected it to one of the laptop computers, displaying a large image of their operational area against the wall.

“Hey, who are you again?” Deckard asked.

“MY NAME IS CODY,” the kid responded in loud stunted words.

“Damn, try using your indoor voice, okay Cody?”

“IT'S NOT MY FAULT. I HAVE ASPERGERS.”

“We have hamburgers here? I'm hungry enough as-”
“NOT HAMBURGERS, ASBERGERS.”

“What the hell are those?”

“I'M NOT STUPID YOU DICKHEAD.”

“Where the fuck did you come from-”

“Holy shit, Deck,” Frank said, crutching his way into the chaos of the Operations Center. “I haven't had the chance to introduce you to Cody. He's the guy I was telling you about. Remember, the hacker I worked with in the past? He helped us with that job in China.”

“Okay, got it,” Deckard said turning towards him. “But what the hell is wrong with him? Did he get into Ortega's stash or something?”

“FUCK-”

“Hey, hold on, Cody,” Frank said holding a hand in the air. “You can just go back to doing what you were doing. Don't worry about it.”

Turning abruptly, the hacker went right back to work with his electronics as if nothing had happened.

“Cody's got Asperger syndrome,” Frank explained.

“What's that?”

“It's like a low grade form of autism. He's socially awkward like you wouldn't believe but he knows this computer shit. He's a genius when it comes to math, code, programming, stuff like that. We communicated by e-mail in the past when he would do freelance jobs for me so I never really noticed it before.”

“Are you sure this is right?” Deckard asked. “Or legal?”

“Since when has that ever gotten in your way? He's fine, just a little strange. I promise you, this guy will pay big dividends in the future.”

“GODDAMN-”

“I got this Cody, chill out!”

“Does he have tourettes as well?”

“Hey,” Pat said leaning through the doorway and poking his head into the operations center. “Nikita just came strutting back into the compound.”

“What do you mean,
back in
?” Deckard snapped.

Nikita stood in the courtyard with his SIG Blaser sniper rifle slung diagonally across his back. He held a Mexican police officer prisoner, the captive's hands secured behind his back with plastic flex cuffs.

“What the fuck is he doing freelancing like this?” Deckard demanded. “Someone go get the Sergeant Major. What is this guy doing, trying to win the Tom Berenger award or something?”

Nikita shrugged his shoulders in response. His English was about as bad as Deckard's Russian.

Apparently the sniper had sneaked out of the compound after Deckard's departure, running his own solo operation. Now he knew what the gunfire on the ridge had been about on their way in. Nikita had triggered the ambush before they
drove
into the kill zone. It wasn't that he wasn't grateful. The sniper had great initiative, if poor judgment.

Just then, Sergeant Major Korgan arrived, looking for Deckard. He must have already been told the news.

“Security is up,” the Sergeant Major reported. “We've got the perimeter secured and will rotate the guards in accordance with our op-tempo.”

One platoon would provide security and other base operations while the second platoon conducted combat operations.

“Take control of this prisoner,” Deckard said. “Get him searched and secured then prepare him for interrogation.”

Korgan nodded, taking the police officer by the collar, relieving Nikita of his prisoner.

“We'll deal with Wyatt Earp later,” he said referring to his renegade sniper. “We've got work to do.”

7

“Alright, take your seats and let's get started,” Deckard said as he set down his cup of coffee. He was already running on fumes. He'd been running recon in Mexico for nearly a week when he made the decision to launch the hostage rescue on Ortega's compound. Calling back to Astana airfield in Kazakhstan, he mobilized the Private Military Company that he was now the
de facto
owner of to get the ball rolling. After the assault on the police station, he knew he needed to get some sleep but transitioning right into twenty-four hour operations was necessary. They wouldn't have long to complete and close out their contract with Samantha before the Mexican government made a power play.

As of now, the mercenaries were the new guns in town and heading for a showdown with Jimenez. The projection against the wall of their Operations Center displayed a map of Central America.

“Here we are in Central America,” Deckard said glancing at Frank. “For those us you who are just joining us.”

Cody worked at his laptop, zooming in on where Southern Mexico met with Guatemala and the Yucatan peninsula.

“Our new base of operations is centrally located in the state of Oaxaca courtesy of Ortega,” Deckard stated, while Cody pinpointed their location the map with a red dot. “To the north is Veracruz, to the west is Guerrero, south is the Pacific Ocean, and to the south east is Chiapas. Continuing east from there is Guatemala.