Wild Hearts (Novella)

This was not going to be like the Navy SEAL Team Six takedown of bin Laden. Rick Yarbrough’s team wasn’t going to be lauded in the news, and there wouldn’t be any movies made. They wouldn’t be hailed as heroes. That was if things went well.

Rick was the first to sign on, no doubt substantiating his nickname: Risk. The boys in his team had followed suit, unwilling to be shown up by the Farm Boy, his other label. They’d all been arrogant enough to take this hit, knowing that if they failed, they’d be thrown under the bus. The official terminology: The U.S. government would disavow any knowledge of the mission. Meant the same damned thing.

So they couldn’t fail. Wouldn’t fail. And now Risk’s team was crouched in the flat desertlike wilderness outside Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, on a warm, moonless night. Surrounding a compound not unlike some they’d raided in Iraq. He checked his suppressed MP7, the perfect weapon for an infiltration like this. Discharging it would alert no one. The mission was simple: Take out Miguel Romero and his four top men execution-style and get out without anyone in the compound the wiser. Make it look like a hit by Los Negros, the most violent and invasive cartel. Let the shit fly afterward, with the U.S.’s nose nice and clean. They’d done it before with success.

And they would do it again.

On the signal, Risk and his teammates moved closer to the concrete wall surrounding the compound. Three guards patrolled the wall, their assault rifles plain as day in their NVGs—night vision goggles.

If the Mexican drug cartels could manufacture adrenaline, they’d have an even bigger customer base. Hot and sweet, it pulsed through Risk as they crept several steps closer. It was the only drug he needed.

The compound held the leaders of an anti-cartel group called El Martillo—the Hammer—that was targeting the growing corruption and bloodshed in Mexico. With cartel activity becoming the biggest organized-crime threat in the U.S., the government was taking public steps to support Mexican officials. They were also secretly funding and
training members of El Martillo, a private organization that used as much violence as the cartels did.

The covert U.S. liaison, known only as the Wolf, was working closely with Miguel Romero, El Martillo’s leader. The Wolf monitored progress and ascertained how much support the Hammer needed. And he’d found out that it was all a front. They wanted to shut down the cartels, all right—so they could take over the lucrative drug trafficking industry themselves. Using resources and weapons supplied by the U.S.

Sons of bitches.

As soon as the guard passed, they moved to the wall.
Showtime
. Quick as spiders, they scaled the rough concrete and dropped to the ground on the other side. The Wolf had given them specs on the whole compound, right down to each bush. He’d been off by about a foot, and Risk had to lurch to the side midfall to avoid landing in a bush. And making a lot of racket.

Salsa—Salsa Boy when they were ribbing him—landed several yards away, his feet making barely a sound. Julian Cuevas was as quiet as a snake when he moved, though his laugh was as loud as the salsa music he used for a ringtone.

Five other shadows fell in line as they followed the wall toward the door that the Wolf was leaving unlocked. A quick scan showed the guards making their rounds as usual. Still, Risk knew that every time you entered a building, someone could be waiting, armed and ready. He did a visual check of his team—all accounted for—since they hadn’t worn the troop net that allowed them to communicate with each other. If they were caught, they couldn’t look as though they were on official military business.

Cal Gutterson led the way into the dimly lit building. None of Risk’s team had worked with him before, though he’d pulled some missions back when Mexico didn’t want America nosing around in their cartel matters. Cal had been to this particular compound when it was held by another cartel. The tentative relations between the two countries were why this had to look like Los Negros. Otherwise, it would seem pretty bad to the world, Americans killing the “good guys.” Others would be livid that the U.S. was funding “terrorists,” no matter their stripes.

Risk crept to the back hallway, cleared it, then followed Gutterson to the right, where Romero was supposed to be sleeping. Saxby Cole, known as Sooch—short for
“Southern charm”—and Knox Logan headed down another hall to take out Romero’s brothers, while Julian and Rath Blackwood headed toward the back of the compound for their targets. There was nothing charming about Sax, or any of them, in black face paint and the dark fatigues Los Negros were known for.

Risk covered from the rear as Gutterson led the way. They flanked the target’s door and listened. Not a sound; not even breathing. Gutterson turned the knob and pushed it open, his gun pointed and ready. Risk could make out two figures lying in the bed. The goal was to kill Miguel, leaving his wife none the wiser—and alive. Unless she aimed a weapon at them.

With the NVGs, Risk could see that Miguel slept on the left side, his assault rifle within easy reach. He wasn’t reaching for it. Gutterson aimed at Miguel. Risk saw something strange on the man’s pillow but didn’t have time to gesture before Gutterson squeezed off two shots.

Though the wife didn’t move, Risk saw the odd pattern on her pillow, too. He tapped Gutterson’s shoulder and pointed at it.

Glass shattered as an assault rifle sprayed a line of bullets at them from outside the window. Risk’s body reacted instantly, dropping him to his knees. Gutterson fell with a thud. Risk came from the side and fired back. He saw no one there, but they’d lost the element of stealth. The compound woke up. Risk could feel it and hear it in the clatter of guns and pounding footsteps.

Gutterson wasn’t moving. Not even a groan when Risk shook him. Risk hoisted Gutterson over his shoulders and darted toward the door, watching both the hallway and the window for movement. Warm blood poured over his shoulder and made his shirt stick to his skin.

Risk swung his weapon right and left before stepping into the hallway. A shadow fell over the tiles on the floor, and he aimed the weapon at the person about to come around the corner. His finger stiffened on the trigger as his brain computed what he saw: a little girl, armed only with a teddy bear.
Holy shit
. The Wolf had said women and children were kept separate from those who might be targets. But here was a kid. Risk lowered his weapon and told her in his limited Spanish to hide. But the kid … hell, she was frozen right there, her big brown eyes reminding him of that deer-in-the-headlights
saying.

Risk tightened his hold on Gutterson, one arm looped around his leg, with one hand gripping his sleeve and the other holding his rifle. He ran out of the hallway, a barrage of bullets zinging past them. Puffs of dust came out of the walls where the bullets hit. They weren’t quite as troubling as the men waiting in the main living area, guns drawn. Risk ducked as the salvo cut across the room inches above him. He could hear suppressed weapons in other areas of the house, probably his teammates.

A woman screamed. Fucking hell. Women and children. The Wolf had either lied or screwed up.

Risk cut two of his assailants down at the knees. Hunching low, he ran for the door, now guarded only by a couple of bodies. The force of a bullet hit him in the chest and threw him to the floor. Gutterson fell in a heap. Pain thrummed through Risk, and he sucked in a ragged breath. The shooter approached from the side. Risk spotted his MP7 on the floor, too far away.

The guy nudged him with a toe. Bare feet, so not prepared for this late-night attack. Risk let him think he was dead.
Three. Two. One
. He grabbed the man’s ankle, jerked, and sent him backward; he hit hard and let out a pained grunt. His gun went off, spraying the ceiling and raining dust and plaster down on them.

Risk grabbed his own weapon and swung it before the guy had a chance to aim. Two
whump
s later, the guy sagged. Risk patted his chest where the bullet had hit him. Thank God for body armor. Still, it hurt like hell.

“Moving,” Saxby said as he entered the main living area, so Risk would know that his comrade was in the room. Sax took out another man who’d stepped out from the hallway entrance. Risk was terrified that the little girl was still frozen in the line of fire. Damn, he hated when kids got hurt because of what their family was up to. Or as a political statement. Or by abusive adults who couldn’t channel their anger properly.

Any reason.

He spotted her hunched down in the corner, her bear a shield in front of her face. Alive, then.

Knox announced his entrance as he darted toward them.

“Gutterson’s been hit,” Risk said in a soft voice. “Condition unknown.” No time
to check for pulses, and it didn’t matter anyway. Dead or alive, they would take him out of there. No man left behind, the military credo. His gut told him the guy was gone, but all he could focus on was hoisting Gutterson again. To survive, they had to compartmentalize everything. For the moment, it wasn’t a comrade on his shoulders but simply weight that he had to transport. Any emotions or physical discomfort had to be shoved into boxes to be dealt with later.

Knox and Risk ran for the door. Saxby covered, sending a volley of shots somewhere behind them.

Rath ran in from the shadows and covered from the other side, sweeping his weapon back and forth and moving along with them. “Wolf not located,” he said in a low voice. “Room was empty,” he added to their unspoken question. They were supposed to put eyes on Wolf in a designated room, give him a few seconds to get into a safe position, and then shoot up the bed so he would look like a target as well.

Julian moved ahead and out the door, Rath right behind him. Rath really looked like Los Negros, with his dark beard and scruffy hair. He definitely didn’t look like a redneck from Tennessee.

SEALs didn’t have to follow strict military standards for grooming, which gave them a lot of leeway for blending in. They weren’t wearing standard uniforms but a mishmash of various camos. Still, they obviously weren’t blending in very well tonight. They waited for the all-clear. The guards who’d been outside had probably run into the building at the first sign of trouble and joined the firefight. But it was dumb to assume they were all inside—and dead.

“Clear,” Julian called.

“Moving,” Risk said, getting the answering confirmation from Knox before stepping out to the courtyard.

The tiniest click shot his attention to the catwalk that led along the inside of the wall where the guards patrolled. One man crouched low, aiming his semi-automatic. He let out an
oof
and fell backward as Rath’s bullets hit him before he could pull the trigger.