No Remorse
Authors: Ian Walkley
Ian Walkley
No Remorse is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people or names of people living or dead is purely coincidental. References to real public figures, events, organizations or locations are used only to provide a sense of authenticity for entertainment purposes and are used fictitiously. The characters, incidents and dialogue in the book are all fictional.
Copyright © 2012 Ian Walkley
ISBN 9780980806618
The right of Ian Walkley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Act (Australia) 1968.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the copyright owner except in the case of quotations used for reviews or articles about the book.
Cover design by Nicole Wong.
Table of Contents
For Ann
Lee McCloud ached to kill the five men in the valley below. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He ignored the sharp piece of rubble under his ribs and eased the sniper rifle into the familiar position, butt firmly against his shoulder, hand cupping the grip, finger resting on the trigger guard. Like spooning with a woman, Mac reflected, though he hadn’t done that in a while.
He watched the Ford Explorer, with Bob at the wheel, racing towards the meeting point up through the barren hills surrounding the El Carrizo dam. He switched his view back to the five men standing around a van and a Land Cruiser. Checking the laser range finder, he adjusted the Hensoldt scope. Six hundred yards. As close as he and his men would dare go. They couldn’t risk stirring the loose rubble to get closer. As it was, they’d only just made it into position before the Mexicans showed.
He wouldn’t admit it in a psych evaluation, but he enjoyed the feeling of having an enemy in the crosshairs. For a few seconds he had God-like control. All he had to do was squeeze. But right now they needed confirmation that Sophia and Danni were in the van before he could give the order.
The exchange was taking place a few miles outside Tijuana. Desert country, scarred with boulders and littered with caves and patchy grass that reminded him of an area northeast of Kandahar, where four years ago his unit had freed a six-person UNAMA team held by Taliban insurgents. But not before they had raped the two women and castrated the team leader.
A gust of wind blew grit in his weathered face. Swallowing several times to suppress the urge to cough, Mac put a small pebble in his mouth, sucking on it to relieve the irritation. He could hear the click of the digital SLR behind him as Termite took photos of the kidnappers and their vehicles through the zoom lens, in case they needed evidence later.
He pressed his radio’s talk button. “Sierra One, this is Sierra Six. Notify when you are in position. Over.”
He shifted his aim to the skinny one with the bowlegs, who he assumed was the leader by the way he was ordering the others about. All of them wore gray uniforms with Atlantic blue caps and a Mexican flag patch on their left shoulder. The uniform of the
Federales,
the Mexican National Police. From the nonchalant way they were standing around, he decided they probably were real cops. If anything, this made him angrier. They were kidnappers. Taking advantage of their position to earn a corrupt living. Way he figured it, killing these creeps would do both countries a favor.
All the same, if they had to let the bastards go or forfeit the ransom money, he wouldn’t care, so long as they got Sophia and Danni back safely. The three volunteers he’d recruited from his Delta unit knew that freeing the girls was their one and only priority.
“We’re good to go, Sierra Six. Over.” Scotty's voice was as mellow as a tenor’s. After six months away from combat operations, Scotty was hungry for action and had been the first to volunteer for the unauthorized mission.
Mac shifted the crosshairs of his scope to the thickset
Federale
with the pockmarked face and dull eyes. This guy reeked of thug—he was spinning a long-bladed knife as though it was a juggler’s club, had a tattoo of a skull on his neck, and when he laughed his lips pulled to one side in a sneer, as though he’d been cut and sewn back together by a surgeon with Parkinson’s disease. All of these guys would kill without hesitation, Mac was sure of it.
Scotty and Freckle were tucked away somewhere in shadows on the next hill. Two firing positions gave them better observation capability and a broader perimeter of fire.
After the call from Bob telling him the sixteen-year-old best friends, Sophia and Danni, had been snatched off the street in Tijuana, he’d had just enough time to grab three volunteers, hunt down some kit from the Delta store, and hitch four seats on the shuttle from Fort Bragg to San Diego. With luck, they’d be back on base before anybody noticed. But if the shit hit the fan, they were on their own.
“Sierra One, I’ll take the guy with the knife and the leader with the pistol. Scotty, you take the two with the AK-47s. Freckle, you stop the van going anywhere.”
“Affirmative,” Scotty said.
Bob's dusky silver Explorer bounced along the rutted gravel track past the ruins of an adobe hut and pulled up near the kidnappers’ Land Cruiser. It was close enough now that he could hear the two fathers in the Explorer talking through the transmitter disguised in Bob’s belt.
The kidnappers’ leader flicked his cigarette onto the barren ground and hacked up a gob of spit as the two men got out of the Explorer. None of the kidnappers made any attempt to adopt a defensive position.
That was when Mac realized something wasn’t right.
The girls’ fathers, Bob and Marvin, each carried a briefcase full of cash with a tiny GPS tracker hidden in a false bottom. They were both taller than the kidnappers, and through the scope Mac could read the pain on Bob’s face. The behavior of the kidnappers was still bothering him, but there was nothing he could do except watch. The leader held out his palm and waved his pistol like it was a flag. He addressed the fathers in accented English.
“You’re late. We think perhaps you do not want your daughters back, eh?”
“Sorry,” Bob said, his breathing short and sharp. “We took a wrong turn coming into the dam. The signs were confusing.”
The man grunted and glanced at the one with the knife. “Check them.”
Knife Man patted them down, searched their pockets, nodded the all clear.
“You have our money?”
“Of course.” Bob’s voice came through deep and confident in his earpiece, although the armpits of his shirt betrayed his anxiety. Be courteous but strong, Mac had advised him, otherwise they won’t respect you. Being a basketball coach undoubtedly helped. “And you have our daughters,” Bob said. A statement, not a question. He held out the briefcase. “Here’s the money. We didn’t contact the police.”
Several kidnappers gave a hearty laugh.
The leader smirked. “We wouldn’t be here if you had, gringo. But your daughters would be. With bullets in their heads.” He gestured to a kidnapper wearing a red bandana around his neck.
“Abrirlos
,” he ordered, and the man took both briefcases and unclipped the locks.
“It’s all there. Two hundred thousand dollars.” With his palms open and his bulky gut, Marvin looked like a preacher calling for the collection plate.
“Ah, my friend Benjamin Franklin.” The gaunt-faced leader grinned at the piles of hundreds. He turned to the man with the bandana. “Count it. Transfer it to our bag.”
Mac’s earpiece crackled and Freckle’s voice said, “Sierra Six, we’ll lose the trackers if they transfer the cash.”
“Roger that. So long as we get the girls out safe,” Mac replied.
Down at the rendezvous, Marvin turned toward the van. “Now, will you please give us our daughters.” He phrased it as a statement, an expectation.
After an arrogant pause, the leader gestured at Knife Man, who opened the rear door and pulled two girls out, their mouths taped and hands bound in front.
Mac froze. The breath choked in his throat. He closed his eyes for just a moment to suppress the memories, bitter and hard, and took deep breaths to clear the stabbing pain in his heart. He forced the memories back to the dark place he kept them hidden, even from himself.
When he opened his eyes he could see it wasn’t Sophia and Danni they had dumped on the ground. These girls were Latinas, probably no more than twelve or thirteen.
That’s why the bastards were so confident.
They’d kept Sophia and Danni, and now they could take the cash without being tracked. And they would demand more, he was certain. But why bring these other girls along? What was the point?
He twisted his head slightly and said to Termite, “Get photos of the girls. It might be important. This could all be some kind of weird performance.”
Marvin turned to face the leader. “There’s some mistake. What do you—?”
Knife Man stepped forward and punched him square in the face, knocking him to the ground. Then he grabbed the shorter of the girls and pressed the knife at her throat. Through the scope, Mac could see the terror on her tiny face, eyes widening in fear, tears streaming down her cheeks. Knife Man's yellow teeth formed a warped grin.
The van door was open, but from this angle Mac couldn’t see inside. “Freckle, Scotty, you guys spot Sophia or Danni?”
“Negative, Mac. There are no other girls in the van.”
Fuck.
Marvin struggled to his feet, tentatively touching his nose. Blood streamed down his face onto the sand.
The leader gestured with the pistol again. “A mistake?
Huevos.
” He turned to his men and waved his arms.
“
Pendejo!
Perhaps the gringos, they don’t like spic chicks, eh?” said Knife Man, waving his blade. It flashed in the sun.
Bob took a step forward, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Come on. We’ve paid you the two hundred thousand you asked for. Surely you can understand we'd like our own daughters back?”
A licorice scent flared in Mac’s nostrils, a sign of his inner fear that he’d learned to read over the years. A sudden chill flowed through his veins as the blood pumped through him. His inner rage and fear were warning him that he needed to do something, and fast. “I have a bad feeling about this,” he said on the radio. “When I give the word, take them down.” He kept his voice steady, gritting his teeth to try and shove the brewing storm back where it belonged.
“You think your daughters are worth only two hundred thousand? These
putas
are what you get for that.”
“
Si.
Others pay much more,” Knife Man said, twisting the hair of the girl he was holding. She cried out and stopped moving.
The leader rounded on him, pointing his pistol. “Shut up,
vato loco
!”
Bob held out an arm, pleading with the leader. "Please. Tell him not to hurt the girl."
The leader muttered something unintelligible in Spanish and Knife Man laughed.
“Please understand,” said Bob. “We’re not wealthy men. But we love our daughters. Please—”
“It’s
you
who choose not to understand,
yanqui
. We too have to feed our families. It costs much to keep your girls safe. You are certain you no want these girls? They do anything you want…”
“No, goddamn it!” yelled Marvin, flinging his arms around. “We want
our
daughters, okay? Not them. We had a deal.”
“Okay.” The leader shrugged and glanced sideways.
Knife Man grinned and sliced his blade across the girl’s throat. Bright syrupy blood spurted across the sand, spraying Bob and Marvin. The kidnappers laughed as Knife Man released the girl’s hair and she collapsed to the ground, her head almost severed from her tiny neck.
At the same time, the leader fired at the other girl, who fell to the ground, where he shot her again.
