Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (26 page)

He found Tio’s lieutenant huddled behind a small rise, the harried looking leader surrounded by several of his team.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Zeta shouted. “Use your grenades and blow the hell out of this place. We don’t have time for a protracted fight.”

The cartel man seemed momentarily confused by the order. “We can’t use the RPGs… I think my brother is in that jail. He was arrested three days ago, and I think they’re holding him…”

Zeta slapped the man across the face
. “I don’t give a fuck if your mother is inside!” He screamed. “We are losing men and momentum. Now take this objective, or I’ll relieve you of command.”

Stunned by the response, the team leader hesitated, shaking his head. “I won’t… I can’t,” the man stammered.

Zeta moved like a striking snake, pulling his pistol and shooting the man in the face. “You’re relieved,” he growled and then turned to the shocked onlookers. “Who’s second in command here?”

One of the nearby assaulters raised his hand, “I am, sir.”

“I want you to rally anyone on your team with an RPG on this spot. Go! Do it now!”

Zeta watched as the cartel thug hustled off. After satisfying himself that his orders were being executed, he pulled his radio and thumbed the button. “I want our grenadiers to form on me.”

“Yes, Colonel,” came the instant response.

A few moments later, the c
olonel was surrounded by four men equipped with rocket launchers, each accompanied by a teammate carrying reloads of the heavy missiles.

“On my command, I want a simultaneous barrage,” Zeta shouted to the new arrivals. “Two there and two there,” he ordered, pointing at different sections of the building.

“Fire!”

Four trails of white smoke followed the sizzling,
rocket-powered warheads into the police headquarters, balls of red and fire flame erupting as the projectiles impacted. Clouds of slicing, screaming shrapnel tore through the ranks of the defenders inside, lacerating flesh and crushing bone.

“Reload! Reload!” Zeta commanded.

Twenty seconds later, a second barrage of missiles impacted the facility, their detonations decimating the numbers of those still fighting.

Before the rumble of the explosions had rolled across the grounds, Zeta was up and waving his men forward. “Go! Go! GO!” he screamed, frantically motioning for his men to enter what remained of the building.     

When the distant explosions first rumbled through his cell, Mike Boyce thought it was
an odd time of day for a baseball game.

The stadium hosting Laredo’s minor league team would shoot off fireworks to celebrate the occasional home run, but most games were at night. It soon became clear to all of the prisoners that the ever-increasing drone of thunder wasn’t due to any baseball game.

There wasn’t any question about the gunfire.

When the shootout at the jail first erupted, the prisoners were as bewildered as the rest of the city. Rows of incarcerated men began nervously pacing back and forth in their cells, each explosion and volley of gunfire agitating the population to a higher level of panic.

Mike and his cellmates were as frightened as anyone. Detained for a DUI, the oldest of the three inmates remained at the cell door, his eyes nervously darting up and down the corridor beyond. As the muffled sounds of violence escalated, shouts and cries sounded throughout the floor, scared men trying to make sense of what had clearly become a major battle.

The walls literally shook wh
en the Mexican RPGs had slammed the building. That event, closely followed by the cracking sound of the random bullet zipping through the area, sent most of the prisoners to the floor. Grown, toughened criminals could be heard crying and whimpering.

Without warning, the door to Mike’s cell flew open. The farmer gasped when he looked up to see a bloody, disheveled deputy standing in the opening.

Streams of crimson flowed down the jailer’s face, his uniform torn and caked with dirt and dried blood. Holding a 12-guage shotgun across his chest, Deputy Turner motioned for the occupants to get out. “You three, get the fuck out of here… right now… come on… I don’t have much time.”

Despite weeks of yearning for his freedom, Mike was con
fused by the opportunity. “What’s going on?” he mumbled, unsure by all the commotion.

“The jail’s under attack. We don’t know by who, but we can’t hold out much longer. No
w get the fuck out of here.”

A loud string of gunfire accented the jailer’s statement, the deputy bringing the shotgun to his shoulder and pointing it toward the main offices. “Get the hell out of here!” he repeated.

The inmates didn’t have to be told again, the need for their departure accented by another burst sounding even closer than the last.

As Mike went to squeeze past Deputy Turner, the lawman reached out and put a hand in his chest. “I
want you to know I’m letting you go because I never felt right about your being in here to begin with. I knew your daddy, and he was a good man. Now you lay low until this all blows over and then walk home. Go take care of your wife and those girls. Now get going!”

Mike managed a smile and nod before being startled by another round of shots. The fighting was clearly getting close. Glancing over his shoulder as he ran toward the emergency exit, he saw Turner take a knee and raise his weapon.

Bullets came screaming down the corridor, pinging ricochets sparking off the steel door and bars. Mike ran as if he were being chased by hell’s hounds, the roar of combat ringing through his head. More lead struck the wall, geysers of plaster and wood rising from the surface and blinding the fleeing men.

Some deep, primitive survival instinct overrode Mike’s legs, forcing him to dive to the floor. He covered the last ten feet before the exit with a mad, scrambling crawl. As he rolled out of the building, he glanced back to see Turner working the pump shotgun as fast as his arms could move.

Just before clearing the opening, Mike saw Turner go down, his rescuer’s body vibrating as several bullets tore through his torso.

Boyce found himself at the back of the jail. He somehow commanded his legs to move and soon was running like the wind down the nearby alley.

He could hear the shouts of voices behind him, but didn’t dare look to see if he was being pursued. He cut a corner, made another left across a parking lot and then spied what he hoped would be a good hiding spot.

The green dumpster somehow looked appealing to the fleeing man. Without hesitation, he pulled himself up and over the edge, landing in
a heap on top of several cardboard boxes and bags of office trash.

He scurried out of the light and into a dim corner, covering himself with the nearest bag and box.

Boots sounded outside the metal container, harsh voices shouting in Spanish. Mike’s heart stopped when a long string of automatic fire sounded, his mind placing the shooter right outside of his hiding spot.

Then the turmoil seemed to move away, the running men and shooting slowly fading into the distance.

Mike didn’t move. With his heart still racing, he was determined to stay put no matter how bad the inside of the dumpster smelled.

Som
e citizens, quickly realizing that their community was under attack, tried to fight back with personal weapons. Like the police, they were completely outmatched. Brave individuals took down the occasional invader, but were quickly overwhelmed by the massed firepower of the organized cartel troops. Many residents perished alongside their vehicles, others at the thresholds of their homes and businesses.

Bedlam and complete chaos erupted throughout
the small municipality. No one knew what was happening, who was shooting, or why the quiet border town had suddenly turned into a combat zone.

For the first time since the W
ar of 1812, an American city fell to a foreign invader.

Tio had recruited the rogue
army units with promises of bounty and national pride. Within an hour of the first shot, every bank, jewelry store and business cash register was being looted by the victorious invaders. The residents of the now-burning town were herded into schools, parks, and shopping mall parking lots while gangs of men roamed the streets taking what they wanted and putting down any pocket of resistance. 

With 250
handpicked men riding in 18-wheel trucks, Tio headed east to the Boyce Poultry Farm and what he knew was the ultimate prize of the day.

As Laredo fell, another signifi
cant force was speeding across south Texas. It had taken a few hours, but eventually Shultz and his FBI technicians had figured out where their fugitive was hiding.

A
surveillance camera at a nearby bank had provided the clues. A man driving a pickup in a hat that matched the one worn by Durham Weathers. A woman riding in the passenger seat with two children in between. The truck speeding by four minutes after the explosion. A license plate number.

A quick computer cross-check with the Texas Department of Motor vehicles confirmed the identity of Mrs. Penny Boyce, the Lexington’s video image matching her driver’s license picture and leaving no doubt.

Interviews with eyewitnesses put Weathers with the woman and her children. It was good enough for Shultz.

The elite FBI Hostage Rescue Unit was already on the way to Corpus. Shultz rallied every available law enforce
ment officer at his disposal. Within two hours, a sizable force was on its way to Laredo, Texas – more specifically the Boyce Poultry Farm residing a few miles east of town.

When the confused radio reports first started drifting in from Laredo, Shultz initially thought Weathers had gone completely insane and
had started blowing the hell out of the border city.

As bits and drabs of information came in, he realized that he and his men were approaching something else.

Less than an hour away from their objective, Shultz received a cell phone call from the bureau’s Corpus field office. They had identified the fingerprints off one of the casualties, one Mr. Victor Bustios, a known Gulf Cartel enforcer with several outstanding warrants.

Pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. As the miles sped by, Shultz realized that the cartel had somehow found out
about the rail gun and Weathers’ location. That knowledge had prompted the shootout aboard the Lexington – an effort that had obviously failed. Now the crime syndicate was making another attempt.