Finest Hour (34 page)

“Ay, caramba,”
he muttered, giving it his best Mexican accent.

He poured a little more over the wound, and this time, the burning sensation was muted.

Gory moaned and rolled onto his side.

Tanner took one last swig of beer and then used the heavy bottle to crush the big man’s skull.

Samantha examined the block of drugs she had pulled from the coffee. It was nearly black in color and had the consistency of dry modeling clay.

“Negro Perla,” she mumbled. Even the words felt evil.

“Hurry up!” called Mateo.

She turned and quickly squirmed her way back through the maze of pallets.

“Come on. Come on,” he said, snatching the drugs from her and tossing them down to Mr. Vega. “At the pace you’re going, we’re both going to be eaten.”

“You mean beaten, right?”

Mateo’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Samantha looked past him through the open doorway and saw that the other guards were all missing. It was just her, Mr. Vega, and Mateo.

“Where is everyone?”

“They went to the plane. There must be some kind of problem with the product.” He stopped talking when he saw a large man in a guard’s uniform step from the Piper and slowly descend the stairs.

Mateo turned away from Samantha and squinted, tightening his grip on his machine gun.

“Who the hell is that?”

Samantha knew exactly who it was.

“That,” she whispered, “is trouble.”

Before he could say another word, she lunged forward, pushing against his back. He stumbled forward, catching the doorframe with one hand as he teetered half in and half out of the plane. Samantha moved to shove him again, but as she came forward, he wheeled around and slapped her with his palm. The blow knocked her back onto her butt, and she tasted blood.

With one foot and hand still dangling outside the plane, Mateo struggled to pull himself back into the hold. Samantha set her hands behind her and began kicking like a boat propeller, striking at the hand holding the doorframe. The man’s grip gave way, and he tumbled out of the plane, falling onto the asphalt below.

Afraid of what she might find, Samantha crawled forward and peeked out.

Mateo lay in a crumpled mass, completely still as a small pool of blood slowly formed beside his head.

Grimacing, she mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

Mr. Vega began to shout all manner of threats, but Samantha’s attention was on the man walking toward them from the Piper. As his bruised and battered face came into view, she couldn’t help but smile. Tanner was coming for her.

She waved, and he raised a single hand above his head.

Mr. Vega wheeled around. At first, he keyed in on the hat and tactical vest, certain that it was one of his men approaching. It was only when he studied the face of the stranger did Mr. Vega finally understand that he had not only lost his drugs; he had lost his men.

Tanner gripped the Spectre submachine gun and walked toward the man in the pink shirt. Shooting a machine pistol was a bit of a spray and pray operation, but he was confident that he could put a few rounds in the Mexican without killing Samantha in the process.

The man yelled something, but Tanner kept the same steady pace. Running with any loaded firearm was dangerous. Doing so with a machine gun he barely knew how to operate was just plain stupid. Besides, the drug lord needed a lesson in patience—one of many, he suspected.

As Tanner came closer, he watched as the expression on the man’s face shifted from anger to concern. Finally understanding his situation, the Mexican glanced over at the submachine gun poking out from beneath Mateo’s limp form.

Tanner shook his head. “Don’t try it. They’d never get the blood out of that pink shirt.”

Vega turned back to face him with an indignant stare.

“Who are you?”

“Tanner Raines.”

“Well, I am Antonio Vega.” He waited for Tanner to offer a hint of recognition. When there wasn’t one, he said, “Clearly you don’t understand the mistake you are making here.”

“I pretty much move through life from one mistake to another.”

“That’s true,” Samantha said, leaning out the open door. When Tanner looked up, she nodded. “I figured you’d be along.”

“What happened to your face?”

She touched her swollen eye and cheek.

“I’m okay.”

He nodded. “I can see that.”

Vega finally put the pieces together.

“She’s your daughter?”

“She is.”

“So, all of this,” he said, waving his arms, “was about getting her back?”

“That, and I don’t really like drug dealers.”

“Me neither,” said Samantha.

Vega glanced over at Mateo, perhaps hoping that he would magically spring to his feet and save the day. Based on the ever-growing pool of blood, that scenario did not appear likely.

“I think he broke something in the fall,” said Tanner. “He might live, but he probably won’t be of much use to you for a while.”

Vega glanced toward the terminal.

“That one’s definitely not going to be of any help.”

“And the other two?” Vega said, shifting his gaze to the Piper.

Tanner shook his head.

A smile crept over Vega’s face.

“Maybe you should be the one in my employ.”

“Sorry, I don’t protect scumbags.”

The smile disappeared. “Okay, so you win. Now what?”

Tanner considered the question. Other than Samantha’s swollen eye and a nasty bite mark on his leg, they weren’t really any the worse for wear. On the contrary, it was Vega’s men who had taken the brunt of the punishment. All in all, they had given out a hell of a lot worse than they had gotten.

He stepped closer and helped Samantha down from the hold.

“Now? We go our way, and you go yours.”

Vega seemed amused. “Just like that?”

Tanner rolled Mateo over, took his gun, and handed it to Samantha.

“Just like that.”

“Mr. Raines, do you know what they call me in Chihuahua?”

“Buttercup? Puddin’ Head? Tell me when I’m getting close.”

Vega smiled. “They call me
El Chorizo
.”

“Let me guess—the sausage maker?”

“Close enough. I got that nickname because my favorite way of making an example out those who cross me is to have them ground up and packed into their own intestines.” He pretended to use a fingernail to pick something from his teeth. “Believe me, you would not be my first American hot dog.”

Tanner turned to Samantha. “Go get your rifle and backpack from the plane. I’ll be along in a minute.”

She eyed Vega. “Be careful with him.”

“I’m always careful.”

She laughed. “That’s a good one.”

Samantha darted under the plane and hurried up the winding stairs. Once she was out of sight, Tanner turned back to Vega.

“I get it. You’re a bad man, and given the opportunity, I’m sure you’d do all kinds of nasty things to me and mine. The thing is we live in a world where everyone’s more afraid of their desperate neighbor than they are some prissy Mexican drug lord a thousand miles away.” He motioned to the open runway. “Your best bet is to take off running and hope to God I don’t shoot you in the back.”

Instead of turning to run, Vega stepped closer.

Tanner raised the machine pistol to eye level.

“You have a choice to make, Mr. Raines,” Vega said in a cool voice. “You can either have your daughter finish what she started, or you can kill me and spend your short miserable life being hunted like the dog that you are. Because if you embarrass me like this, I promise I will have you both put through the grinder.”

Tanner said nothing, weighing the man’s words.

“Good,” said Vega. “You understand the situation. So, which is it going to be?”

Tanner tightened his grip on the machine gun.

“Sorry, bub. I think I’ll take door number 2.”

Chapter 20  

Jack Fry, Bill Baker, Tom Pinker, President Glass, and Dr. Tran were seated around a long stainless steel table. General Carr stood at the end of the table with a black Pelican container resting at his feet.

“I’m happy to report that the engineers have left the bunker. We are now secure.”

Rosalyn Glass pressed the electrolarynx to her mandible.

“Thank you, General. That’s one less thing to worry about.”

“Even though we’re sealed up,” said Carr, “I do think it’s prudent for us to set up an around-the-clock foot patrol.”

“With just the five of us—” started Bill.

“Six,” corrected Glass.

“Ma’am,” he said with a warm smile. “With all due respect, you’re not quite ready to report to guard duty just yet.”

“He’s right,” seconded Carr. “You need to stay in your cabin behind locked doors.”

Rosalyn Glass wanted to argue the point, to assure them that she was capable of carrying her fair share of the load, but the gesture would have been empty. She was lucky to remain standing for more than ten minutes at a time, and each and every one of them knew that.

“The rest of us will swap out on the hour,” offered Carr.

Bill leaned back and scratched his belly.

“One on and four off. That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“I’ll remind you of that when I wake you at three in the morning,” said Carr.

“Can I get access the whole facility in this?” Jack asked, patting his wheelchair. “I don’t want to be the weak link.”

“You shouldn’t have any trouble.”

“But what do we do if we see something?” asked Glass. “It’s not like there’s an alarm to sound. And even if there were, what good would it do? If they get inside, we’re all in trouble, whether we shout from the rooftops or not.”

“Which is why I brought these.” General Carr opened the Pelican case and removed a full-sized, semi-automatic handgun. As he held up the firearm, the walls of the meeting room seemed to close in.

“What’s that?” she whispered.

“It’s a .22 caliber Sig Sauer Mosquito. Easy to shoot, lightweight, and reasonably accurate.” He handed the weapon to Jack before fishing out five more.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Jack said, dangling the Mosquito in front of him.

Carr ignored the question as he finished doling out the pistols. Once they were distributed, he lifted the final handgun from the case and held it up for everyone to see. The slide was locked to the rear, revealing an empty chamber.

“I want each of you to pick up your weapon so that we can walk through its operation.”

Bill was the first to pick up his firearm.

“These babies don’t have a lot of punch,” he said, bringing the gun to his nose and sniffing the chamber.

Pinker worked the slide on his pistol a couple of times.

“Maybe not, but assassins have been killing with .22s for a very long time. They do a nice job of riddling around in the head. Plus, they don’t make much noise.”

“What are we now,” mumbled Jack, “professional hitmen?”

“You don’t have to be a hitman,” said Carr. “But you do need to know how to defend yourself. As for Bill’s comment, he’s right. A .22 slug won’t punch through body armor, but neither would my .45.” He patted the Colt 1911 pistol hanging at his waist. “I thought it was better that we stick with something that even a beginner could shoot. If any of you feel that this firearm is inadequate, we can search the bunker for something more powerful.”

Jack remained unconvinced. “I’ve never fired a gun, and I don’t know that I want to start now.”

“Understood. I can only give you the means by which to defend yourself. You get to decide whether or not you want to live.”

Jack cut his eyes at the general.

“Jack,” coaxed President Glass, “perhaps you could at least keep it in your wheelchair. You know… just in case.”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Carr handed each person three ten-round magazines and a small box of ammunition. Once everyone was ready, he carefully walked them through loading and unloading the weapons.

Holding up the three loaded magazines, he said, “This gives you thirty rounds ready to fire. That’s not a lot, so choose your shots carefully.”

“I’m assuming that you have spare ammunition,” said Pinker.

Carr reached down and lifted out a brick of ammunition.