Ghost Sniper

78

Hancock sat watching out the back window of the car. “Shit. They’re not following!”

The driver pulled to a stop in front of an alley where ten narcos lay in ambush, three of them holding RPGs. “Should I go back?”

“No. Fuck it, they’re onto us,” Hancock answered. “They’ll pull back to the center of town now and circle the wagons. We’re gonna have to dig them out of the square.”

The guy in the passenger seat, busy talking on the phone, looked back at Hancock. “Our people destroyed the other truck four blocks over. They have two cops pinned down, and it sounds like more are on the way. What do you want our people to do?”

“Let’s go!” Hancock banged his fist urgently on the back of the seat. “If we can draw these assholes into a stand-up fight, we can wipe them out!”

The driver shouted for the men in the alley to load into their cars and follow.

Hancock ejected the magazine from the Barrett, topping it off with a single .50 caliber cartridge and slapping it back in. “Call our people on the east side and tell ’em to begin their attack.”

Crosswhite and the wounded cop huddled behind the wheel hub of a shot-up SUV, using the engine compartment as cover. The enemy was not moving to take them out, but nor would it allow them to retreat.

“Why haven’t they fired another rocket?” wondered the cop. “We should be dead by now.”

“Because they’re using us as bait.” Crosswhite searched desperately up and down the street for an avenue of escape, but there just wasn’t any cover. “They want to draw us into battle and smash us.”

“Can they do that?”

“If they have the numbers, they can. We don’t even have a radio to warn our men away.”

As if to emphasize the point, a police truck rounded the corner and came roaring down the street, siren wailing. A rocket streaked out of the alley and blew off the tail end, throwing wounded cops into the street and sending the truck careening out of control into a building.

Crosswhite fired on the alley and ran out to recover the wounded policemen. Dragging them to cover behind the wrecked and burning truck, he shouted for the driver to warn the other units away — but the man didn’t hear him because he was already on the radio calling for more help.

Vaught and Sergeant Cuevas arrived from the opposite direction with two more trucks right behind them.

“We gotta get the fuck outta here!” Crosswhite said. “A pitched battle is exactly what we don’t want!”

“Roger that!” Vaught slung his weapon and reached to help a wounded man to his feet.

Another RPG, fired from a rooftop this time, hit the last police truck in line and set it ablaze, effectively blocking their southern avenue of escape.

Crosswhite took a shot at the rocketeer. “Who’s selling these cocksuckers all the goddamn rockets? It’s like fuckin’ Fallujah out here!”

Sergeant Cuevas fired a 40 mm grenade at a caged storefront and blew open the door. “Put the wounded inside the shoe store! This is our command post.”

“It’s more like the Alamo,” Crosswhite growled, heaving a wounded man over his shoulder. “But it’ll have to do.”

They moved the wounded men inside, and Crosswhite helped the cop with the shattered forearm lash the wounded appendage to his harness, giving him his spare pistol ammo. “Remember your training,” he told him. “Hold the pistol in the crook of your leg to reload, and jack it against the heel of your boot to release the slide. Got it?”

The cop nodded.

“Good man!” Crosswhite bashed him on the shoulder and went to the door.

The police had positioned the remaining two trucks in front of the building to provide more cover, mounting a light machine gun to the roll bar.

“We’ve got more men on the way,” Cuevas said. “We’ll be okay.”

“Until Hancock sets up at the north end of the street,” Crosswhite said. “These are your men, Sergeant, but I’d get that gunner down out of the truck. He’s a prime target.”

Cuevas stepped over and ordered the gunner to set up beneath the truck with the bipod, covering the north end of the street. Then he reached into the cab for the radio to brief Chief Diego on their situation.

Having done what little he could for the wounded, Vaught came over, wiping his bloody hands on his trousers. “Whattaya think?”

Crosswhite swiped at his bleeding forehead, where a piece of spall from a ricochet had cut him open. “Hate to say it, but Diego should pull the rest of his people back and let us die on the vine; stick to his plan and hold the center of town. But he won’t do that. He’ll send every man he’s got to save our asses.”

“And so would you,” Vaught said.

“I dunno… maybe.” Crosswhite was pissed at himself for letting things get so badly muddled so early in the battle. “Those RPGs change the entire ball game. I didn’t expect they’d have so many. And once Hancock shows up with that fuckin’ fifty of his, we’ll be like ducks at a carnival.” He lit a cigarette, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs. “Goddamn him!”

“We’ll get it sorted out,” Vaught said confidently.

Crosswhite counted two walking wounded and three critical. “We don’t even have stretchers. They got rockets, and we don’t even have fucking stretchers to evacuate these men.”

“Hey, let’s focus on what we do have.”

“Which is what?” Crosswhite asked him. “What’ve we got, dude? We got ten men with rifles and two walking wounded! We’re barricaded in a goddamn shoe store, and every truck that rolls in here to relieve us is gonna get blown up. I’m telling you, I’ve seen enough combat to know when you’re fucked. And, buddy, we’re fucked.”

“Unless we make a break for it right now and leave the wounded behind.”

Crosswhite took a drag. “Is that what you’re suggesting?”

Vaught shook his head, knowing that wasn’t an option.

“Exactly. So we’re back to being fucked.”

Sergeant Cuevas came into the shop. “Bad news. I’ve explained the situation about the rockets to Diego, and he says Ruvalcaba’s men have begun attacking from the east. He doesn’t like it, but he’s agreed to pull the rest our forces back to the center of town. There’s no more help coming.”

Crosswhite exchanged grim glances with Vaught.

“Maybe we can hold out until daylight,” Vaught ventured. “The government can’t ignore this battle indefinitely — not with Serrano being dead.”

Crosswhite exhaled smoke. “Don’t kid yourself.” He dropped the cigarette and stepped on it. “I didn’t kill that asshole in time to make any difference here. Let’s hope Mariana has better luck killing Ruvalcaba. At least that way things won’t be a total loss.”

Mariana had called him earlier in the day, telling him that Fields was dead and that she had a plan to remove Hector Ruvalcaba — a plan she didn’t dare share with him over the phone.