Damage Control

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Even two blocks away, the explosion was huge, launching a roiling ball of orange fire that momentarily turned night to day. As the original burst of light faded-not nearly as quickly as it had erupted-a dimmer glow remained, the beginnings of secondary fires.

Boxers gave a wild look as Jonathan dumped his ruck on the floor of the Sandcat’s shotgun seat and climbed in after it. “Think you used enough dynamite there, Butch?” Big Guy quipped, stealing a line from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. “Jesus, what did you blow up?” If the second charge had been the first-the closest-it might have killed them all.

“I knew that one was for effect, so I daisy-chained three GPCs on the gas tank.”

Boxers laughed. “Holy shit.”

Jonathan ignored him and turned in his seat to make sure that Tristan was aboard and secured. When the doors were all closed, he said, “Go,” and they were moving.

Jonathan tried not to look at the conflagration he’d ignited. The thought of the lives that he had just ruined sickened him. Even if everyone got out of their homes safely, their possessions-lifetimes of memories-would all be destroyed. And the destruction was all his responsibility. If only there’d been another way.

The first blast had been designed to draw the OPFOR closer, and the second blast had been all about killing as many of them as possible. Because such things were an inexact science, it made sense to use more explosives and to capitalize on the accelerant effect of the gasoline.

If there’d been a propane tanker parked at the curb, he’d have set the bomb on that.

He needed to tweak every advantage he could find to make sure that his PC would rest his head on his own pillow again. Everything else was secondary to that.

If theory evolved into fact, the explosion would have culled the OPFOR herd significantly, and demoralized the hell out of them. That last part was important. A force that can’t focus on an objective can’t fight effectively.

These Mexican soldiers and the local emergency response agency would all be reeling from the explosive attacks when Jonathan and his team rolled in to take Maria Elizondo to safety. With any luck, he would pluck their new PC without incident, and they’d skip back to America unmolested.

Right. And then pigs would fly.

Hundreds of rats-thousands of them-raced toward Maria, churning the water, presenting as a malignant gray blanket across the surface. They hit her head-on, then flowed around her as if she weren’t there. Poised as she was on her hands and knees, her face inches above the surface of the water, the rats swam through her arms and scampered over her shoulders and down her neck.

Fleeing the advancing and thickening cloud of smoke, they seemed entirely unmoved by her screams.

For long seconds, Maria just kneeled there, allowing herself to be overtaken by the smoke and the fear and the vermin. She felt paralyzed. In her worst nightmares, she had never considered this kind of horror. Part of her reasoned that if she turned off the light, the fear would go away-or at least lessen.

No, she thought with a shiver. This is not how I am going to die. But if she locked down, dying was the only possible outcome for her.

Maria had to settle herself down and think the problem through.

The explosion had to have come from upstream of the flow of vermin and smoke. She had a direction to travel. She told herself to ignore everything but the goal. Rats were just more of God’s creatures trying to survive just as she was. They had no interest in her.

She forced herself to ignore the smoke that gouged at her eyes and tore at her throat. As long as she felt the pain, at least she knew that she was still alive.

With the light clasped in her teeth like a metal cigar, she crawled upstream through her terror, her face wet and slimy with tears and snot and fetid water. The ladder had to be here somewhere, and with the ladder would come options.

At least she’d be able to-

Stand! In the gathering and thickening smoke, she’d nearly missed the ladder, but there it was, along with the vestibule that allowed her to get her feet under her and rise to her full height. The sudden change startled the rats, and two of them clung to her as she rose above the water, their little rat nails digging into the fabric of her shirt at her shoulders, one on each side.

She swiped at them in hacking, spasmodic movements that sent them tumbling back into the disgusting flow of their fleeing cousins. Spitting out the flashlight, she grabbed the metal rungs of the ladder and started to climb.

Maria decided to ignore Mother Hen’s instructions. When she’d issued them, she couldn’t possibly have known about these complications. If this was the result of the first two explosions, then God only knew-

The third blast sounded like it might have been directly overhead. The opaque smoke over her head flashed orange with it, and the rungs of the ladder pulsed violently enough to throw her off if she hadn’t been holding on so tightly. Below her, the water surged, but she didn’t care. Her future lay above.

She climbed the ladder blindly, and with each rung, the atmosphere became less breathable.

When her head hit hard metal, she knew that freedom had arrived. Locking the heels of her shoes against one ladder rung, and gripping the top rung tightly in her left hand, she leaned away for added leverage and used her right hand to push upward with all her strength.

The metal disk moved more easily than she’d anticipated. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe manhole covers just weren’t that heavy. Either way, it slid to the side. When the opening was big enough for her head and shoulders to pass, she climbed the rest of the way into the night. In her mind, as she rose through the plume of smoke that gushed from the opening in the street, she looked like a ghost emerging from the mist.

With her waist clear, she bent until she was flat with the street and she dragged her legs out. Soaked to the skin and disgusted by what she’d endured, she shivered in the hot night air. Soon it would be over.

Maria crouched on the ground, looking first to the left and then to the right for signs of danger. She nearly jumped out of her skin when two men approached her from behind with weapons trained on her.

These must be her rescuers, she thought, but why were they pointing guns?

“You must be Maria Elizondo,” one of them said. “Felix Hernandez is anxious to chat with you.”

In his heart, Palma had known that a third explosion was coming. It only made sense. The first blast was designed to draw his people in. The second was designed to kill those responders-a well-calculated move as it turned out. If he had been planning these diversions-and he knew now that that’s what they were-he would have planted a third bomb to invoke utter confusion.

He hadn’t expected it to be so close, however-only fifty meters away. That his adversary could get so close without being detected was at once impressive and frightening. Palma had put a man very near that location to watch the oncoming street. He couldn’t remember the soldier’s name, but that probably didn’t matter. The fact that the charge had been planted in the first place probably meant that he was dead. And if he wasn’t killed before, then the blast had most certainly taken care of it.

Palma’s radio broke squelch. “Captain, we have Maria Elizondo,” a voice said.

He smiled. A diversion was only as effective as its ability to divert attention. Once he’d figured out what his adversary’s plan had been, Palma had told his remaining forces to hold fast in their current positions.

And now his decision had paid off. With the world around him on fire, he brought his radio to his lip. “Bring her to me,” he said.

Jonathan had read about the Sandcat-in the U.S., they were called tactical protector vehicles, or TPVs-but he’d never seen the interior of one. Built on a Ford F-550 chassis, the dashboard looked just like any other pickup truck. And if it weren’t for the five-point restraint system, the seats would have looked familiar, too.

But that’s where the similarity stopped. The doors felt heavy enough to be armored, but not quite heavy enough to be armored well. Not knowing the Mexican government’s specs for such things, the element of doubt translated to a lack of confidence that the doors or windows could stop anything heavier than a slingshot.

Thanks to night vision, Jonathan could make out the details of the interior, as well, and was surprised to see fold-down web benches instead of seats. They attached to the side bulkheads, and to Jonathan’s eye could accommodate two people each with body armor, and three each without. He assumed that the black knobs that dotted the bulkheads on all sides were gun ports that provided for a fairly effective field of fire.

The article he’d read about the TPVs had showed a picture of a gun turret with a mounted M60 machine gun. Here, in the spot where that turret would be mounted, was a rooftop emergency exit, instead.

Boxers drove with the lights off and NVGs in place. It looked as if the Sandcat was equipped with a FLIR system-forward-looking infrared-but it was tough enough driving with night vision. Why complicate it with the challenge of driving from a television screen?

Apparently, the third bomb had spread a lot of fire, evidence of a full gas tank on the vehicle where it had been set. As Boxers piloted the Sandcat toward the conflagration-there wasn’t room to turn the beast around in the narrow streets-Jonathan watched flames climb higher than the rooftops. As they turned the corner to head north before going east again, he got a glimpse of the carnage he’d created. Bodies littered the street, some of them clearly dead, and some of them writhing in pain. One of the living guys’ clothes were still smoking.

A Mexican soldier-a sergeant, judging from his uniform insignia-spotted the Sandcat and ran toward it, his arms waving for it to stop and help.

“Want me to run him down?” Boxers asked.

“No,” Jonathan said. “Not unless he gets in the way or he looks like he’s going to take a shot. Just keep going.”

Boxers did in fact gun the engine and lurch toward the sergeant, but it was a move designed to make the guy jump back, thereby saving him.

If anyone else had been behind the wheel, Jonathan would have told the driver to slow down, but Boxers was very good at this sort of thing. Jonathan figured they were doing thirty, thirty-five miles an hour when Boxers cut the right-hand turn onto the street that ran behind Maria’s house. He cut it short, too, galumphing over the curb and taking out a bicycle that someone had foolishly left in a yard.

Tristan yelled from the back as the impact launched him out of his bench and nearly into the ceiling before he landed in a heap on the armored floor. “Hey!”

“Hang on, kid!” Boxers said through a laugh. The humor evaporated as quickly as it had arrived as he caught a glimpse of what lay ahead. “I think we’re in trouble, Boss,” he said.

Jonathan saw it, too. A pair of soldiers had a woman in custody, each with a hand on a different biceps while the one on the right spoke into a radio.

“Turn on the headlights,” Jonathan commanded, flipping his NVGs out of the way. “And keep going forward.”

Boxers shot him a confused look, but he complied without a word.

The guards looked startled as the headlights caught them. The one on the left shielded his eyes right away, but the one on the right had to put his radio down first.

“Go in like we belong,” Jonathan said. “I want them to think we’re the cavalry.” As he spoke, he unclipped his M27 from its sling and drew the MP7 from its holster on his left thigh.

“Your plan is just to go out shooting?” Boxers asked. His tone made it clear that he did not approve.

“She’s our ticket out of town,” Jonathan said. “I don’t see-”

Maria Elizondo moved with startling speed. While her captors stared at the approaching vehicle, she made a wild flapping motion with both arms, breaking free from their grasp. She took a step back.

Jonathan saw that as his cue and he shouldered open his door.

The soldiers were still reacting when petite Maria produced a massive pistol from somewhere. She drew and fired in the same motion. The guy on the right fell.

The recoil was a problem for her, though. Before she could regain control, the soldier on the left had found his own weapon. He was bringing it to bear when Jonathan snap-shot a bullet from his MP7 into the guy’s right ear.

Startled, Maria brought her revolver around and took a shot at Jonathan.

He read her body language in time to spin around and duck behind the panel of his open door. The bullet punched through four inches from his ear.

So much for the vehicle being armored.

Maria hadn’t meant to fire at the truck. It was a reflex, a body twitch reacting to the sound of a gunshot. She saw a man drop as she pulled the trigger, and now she expected to be shot herself.

For an instant, she considered running away, but the urge evaporated from her brain seconds after it formed.

She had to make it clear that she’d meant them no harm.

“She dropped her weapon,” Boxers said. “She’s got her hands up.”

Jonathan felt relieved. He didn’t think that her gunplay had been an act of aggression. It would have sucked to have to kill her.

“Put your hands in the air!” Jonathan called from behind the door. He raised up high enough to see through the closed window and saw that she was doing as she was told.

Satisfied, he let the MP7 hang at his side as he stepped out into the open. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Are you the Americans here to take me to the United States?”

“That depends on what your name is,” Jonathan said. He was nearly certain, but they’d had no visual ID for her, so even shadows of doubt had to be taken seriously.

“My name is Maria Elizondo,” she said.

“And who do you work for?”

“Felix Hernandez.”

“What is the name of your FBI contact?”

“Veronica Costanza.”

Jonathan felt his shoulders sag with relief. He motioned for her to come to the Sandcat. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“Can I take my pistol?” she asked.

“Are you going to shoot at me again?” He made sure to ask that one with a smile.

“I didn’t mean to,” Maria said. Obviously, she couldn’t see the smile.

Jonathan pointed to the.44 with his chin. “Sure, go ahead. Quickly.”

“Don’t be crazy, Scorpion,” Boxers said from the driver’s seat.

Jonathan ignored him. Maria wasted no time. She bent at the waist, picked up the weapon off the street, and jogged over to him. When she closed to within a few feet, Jonathan extended his hand and smiled again. “You can call me Scorpion,” he said.

He opened the back door for her. “The driver is Big Guy, and that young man is Tristan.”

Jonathan offered a hand to help her up the big step, but she didn’t need it.

He closed the back door, holstered his MP7, and climbed back into the shotgun seat.

“Let’s go to America,” he said.

Boxers gunned the engine.

She was beautiful.

As incongruous and stupid and juvenile as it seemed, that was Tristan’s first thought. Maria Elizondo was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He’d only caught a glimpse of her in dim yellow streetlamp light that made it through the windows. Her huge brown eyes glinted in the light, and as she sat on the bench opposite him, he could make out every contour of her body through the soaked clothing that clung to her skin.

Clung to her breasts. Her breasts that had no bra. The suspension on this truck left a lot to be desired, and every bump caused the breasts to bounce.

Christ, he was getting hard. How much of a pervert do you have to be to get a hard-on when people are shooting at you?

“Hello,” she said in English. From her smile, he sensed that she’d read his mind.

Tristan’s ears turned hot. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Tristan. I’m the one who actually has a real name.”

“Maria,” she said.

“Tell me where we’re going, Maria,” Jonathan called from the front seat.

She rose from her bench and duck-walked to where she could look between the two front seats to see out the windshield.

God, her ass looked great, too.