Brandt twisted it. Once
he felt the clunk of the lock giving way, Brandt backed to the side, his hand
on the doorknob. Carefully, he turned it, then shoved it inward.
Svengurd burst into the dimly lit room. Brandt followed
Lopez as Svengurd sank his knife into the gut of the inside guard. The man
slumped over without a sound. Several figures scrambled back, cowed, frightened
of the danger that rode into the room.
“Are you American?” one of them asked.
Brandt put his fingers to his lips, then signaled to the
small group to follow.
“I don’t think he can get up,” a dark–haired man said,
wincing as blood dripped down from his cut eye. He must have been Kirkland, one
of the CIA field operatives. The other one kneeling by the downed man must have
been Pollov.
Lopez knelt by the Latino on the ground. When the corporal
turned over the CIA’s informant, Brandt was shocked at how young was. Not more
than a few years older than the boy soldiers outside. His skin was marred by
black, blue, purple, green and even yellow bruises. Someone had been tuning the
kid up for days.
Anger welled. It was one thing to think about the cartel’s
cruelty. It was quite another to see it firsthand. He wanted anyone Stateside
who did cocaine at a party to see what their “recreational” use did in the
country of origin. How many boys like this one and the ones out in the jungle
had paid the price for someone’s high?
“I’ve got him,” Lopez whispered as he slung the young man
over his shoulder. The teen tried to protest, but wasn’t exactly in any shape
to argue.
“Brandt?” a familiar voice said, seeming almost as surprised
as Brandt himself. He turned to find a mop of sandy blond hair and a crooked
smile.
“Vanderwalt?” he asked, though he knew it was the British MI–5
officer. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Vacation, would you believe it?” his old friend said, then
coughed. It wasn’t until then that Brandt noticed the blood on Vanderwalt’s
shirt. “Just a few broken ribs,” the Brit tried to reassure him.
It looked like more than that, but they didn’t have time to
assess his injuries. They could do that on the extraction helicopter, which was not going to wait for pleasantries. He draped Vanderwalt’s arm over his
shoulder.
Svengurd cracked the door open. Apparently it looked clear,
as he opened it more fully. Before he stepped through, gunfire sounded…from all
around. Brandt slammed Vanderwalt down, covering him with his body. Lopez and
Svengurd did the same to the other hostages.
Over the gunfire, Pollov said, “This is what happened to us.
They use hostages as bait.”
Of course they did.
Brandt indicated to Svengurd. “Luckily, we came slightly
more prepared.”
The tall point man pulled out the detonator. Inch by inch,
the stoic Swede’s lips turned up into a rare grin. “I’d stay down,” he advised.
Brandt saw how much C4 Svengurd had packed in, so he
believed him.
As bullets punched through the thin wood walls, the point
man brought his thumb down on the red detonator button. An explosion ripped the
shack to the south to shreds. Then another explosion sounded to the north.
Lastly, the back wall of their shack blew out.
Funny how the shooting stopped. It was replaced by angry
shouts.
“Move out!” Brandt ordered.
Svengurd, his gun already in position, climbed over the
shattered wall and into the forest. Lopez, hauling the kid, went next. Brandt
encouraged the CIA operatives to keep in tight formation as he helped keep
Vanderwalt steady.
“Sorry, mate,” the Brit said. “You should leave me behind.”
Making his way out of the shack, Brandt shook his head. “And
then who would buy me bangers and mash?”
Vanderwalt probably meant to flash a smile, but it ended up
a grimace. No matter—they needed to haul ass before their window closed. Which
seemed to be closing rapidly as the enemy regrouped. The Los Zetas weren’t the
fastest growing cartel for
he felt the clunk of the lock giving way, Brandt backed to the side, his hand
on the doorknob. Carefully, he turned it, then shoved it inward.
Svengurd burst into the dimly lit room. Brandt followed
Lopez as Svengurd sank his knife into the gut of the inside guard. The man
slumped over without a sound. Several figures scrambled back, cowed, frightened
of the danger that rode into the room.
“Are you American?” one of them asked.
Brandt put his fingers to his lips, then signaled to the
small group to follow.
“I don’t think he can get up,” a dark–haired man said,
wincing as blood dripped down from his cut eye. He must have been Kirkland, one
of the CIA field operatives. The other one kneeling by the downed man must have
been Pollov.
Lopez knelt by the Latino on the ground. When the corporal
turned over the CIA’s informant, Brandt was shocked at how young was. Not more
than a few years older than the boy soldiers outside. His skin was marred by
black, blue, purple, green and even yellow bruises. Someone had been tuning the
kid up for days.
Anger welled. It was one thing to think about the cartel’s
cruelty. It was quite another to see it firsthand. He wanted anyone Stateside
who did cocaine at a party to see what their “recreational” use did in the
country of origin. How many boys like this one and the ones out in the jungle
had paid the price for someone’s high?
“I’ve got him,” Lopez whispered as he slung the young man
over his shoulder. The teen tried to protest, but wasn’t exactly in any shape
to argue.
“Brandt?” a familiar voice said, seeming almost as surprised
as Brandt himself. He turned to find a mop of sandy blond hair and a crooked
smile.
“Vanderwalt?” he asked, though he knew it was the British MI–5
officer. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Vacation, would you believe it?” his old friend said, then
coughed. It wasn’t until then that Brandt noticed the blood on Vanderwalt’s
shirt. “Just a few broken ribs,” the Brit tried to reassure him.
It looked like more than that, but they didn’t have time to
assess his injuries. They could do that on the extraction helicopter, which was not going to wait for pleasantries. He draped Vanderwalt’s arm over his
shoulder.
Svengurd cracked the door open. Apparently it looked clear,
as he opened it more fully. Before he stepped through, gunfire sounded…from all
around. Brandt slammed Vanderwalt down, covering him with his body. Lopez and
Svengurd did the same to the other hostages.
Over the gunfire, Pollov said, “This is what happened to us.
They use hostages as bait.”
Of course they did.
Brandt indicated to Svengurd. “Luckily, we came slightly
more prepared.”
The tall point man pulled out the detonator. Inch by inch,
the stoic Swede’s lips turned up into a rare grin. “I’d stay down,” he advised.
Brandt saw how much C4 Svengurd had packed in, so he
believed him.
As bullets punched through the thin wood walls, the point
man brought his thumb down on the red detonator button. An explosion ripped the
shack to the south to shreds. Then another explosion sounded to the north.
Lastly, the back wall of their shack blew out.
Funny how the shooting stopped. It was replaced by angry
shouts.
“Move out!” Brandt ordered.
Svengurd, his gun already in position, climbed over the
shattered wall and into the forest. Lopez, hauling the kid, went next. Brandt
encouraged the CIA operatives to keep in tight formation as he helped keep
Vanderwalt steady.
“Sorry, mate,” the Brit said. “You should leave me behind.”
Making his way out of the shack, Brandt shook his head. “And
then who would buy me bangers and mash?”
Vanderwalt probably meant to flash a smile, but it ended up
a grimace. No matter—they needed to haul ass before their window closed. Which
seemed to be closing rapidly as the enemy regrouped. The Los Zetas weren’t the
fastest growing cartel for
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