Damage Control

“When they fire on us, put it on full-auto and open up through the back door,” Jonathan instructed. “Maria, grab a weapon and help.”

Maria didn’t hesitate even a second. She snatched up one of the rifles they’d taken from the soldiers who’d tried to arrest her and moved to the back door, shoulder to shoulder with Tristan.

“Slow down, Big Guy,” Jonathan said. “Get us as close as you can. Let them think we might be surrendering. When I start shooting, gun it and get us the hell out of here.”

“Roger that,” Boxers said. “Just make sure to leave me enough space to get a good run at the fenders.”

The Sandcat slowed to nearly a crawl as they got to within fifty meters of the checkpoint. Jonathan’s plan was simple: He was going to do exactly the opposite of what he’d done against the technical. When he started shooting, it wouldn’t be about acquiring a specific target and killing it. Instead, it would be about scaring the shit out of all the targets at once so that they’d dive for cover and still have their heads down when Boxers blasted through the barricade.

As they approached, Jonathan kept his head inside the Sandcat, fearing that even the hint of a gun turret might spook the bad guys early and make them start shooting. Up ahead, the soldiers seemed confused. Jonathan guessed there were maybe fifteen of them in total. Some had taken shooting stances, and others were standing with their weapons at port arms.

“I want to do this soon,” Boxers said. “I’m running out of runway.”

Jonathan steadied himself under the open escape hatch, steeled himself with a deep breath, and then stood to his full height. As soon as his shoulders were clear of the hatch, he brought the 417 to his shoulder and opened up on the roadblock. On full-auto, he raked their positions from left to right, and then back again. He emptied a mag in less than two seconds, and by then Boxers had found the gas, and they were moving fast. For such a heavy vehicle the Sandcat had a lot of acceleration.

Jonathan fingered the release button to drop the spent mag, and then he slapped a fresh one in its place and resumed hosing bad guys.

“Here we go!” Boxers yelled. “Hang on.”

Jonathan figured they had to be doing fifty when they made contact. The Mexicans had parked two environmentally friendly, fuel-efficient little toy cop cars nose-to-nose in the middle of the road, no doubt thinking that they’d created a roadblock. Boxers nailed them both simultaneously, just forward of their respective front wheels, and they spun out of the way as if they were made of balsa wood-or, more appropriately, as if pounds of metal had given way to tons of steel.

This stuff was all about the proper application of mass and momentum, and nobody on the planet did it more expertly than Boxers.

Tristan had been expecting something more dramatic than a thump. They’d just rammed two cars, for God’s sake, but it was less of an impact than the potholes. It knocked him on his ass, but that was about it.

Now, the open back door framed the image of a world that was shooting back at them. As the line of soldiers and vehicles fell away, he watched some of them stand up and open fire. Above and behind, Scorpion’s gun continued to pound, and Tristan saw puffs of glass and flying metal as his bullets tore into the soldiers’ vehicles and equipment.

A spray of blood announced the disintegration of a soldier’s head.

To his left, Maria kneeled squarely in the center of the opening and opened up on the line of cars and people. She fired a long string of bullets, just holding the trigger down until the magazine was empty. As spent shell casings streamed from her ejection port, they showered over him. He didn’t know they’d be that hot.

Tristan didn’t aim so much as he pointed and pulled the trigger. When his weapon went dry, he dropped out the magazine and reached for more on his vest, just like he’d done a thousand times when they were in hiding, but his hands hadn’t been trembling back then. And nobody was-

Something hit him hard in the chest, driving the air from his lungs and causing him to sit down hard on his butt.

“Tristan is shot!” Maria yelled.

“Shoot back!” Boxers hollered.

Holy shit, I’ve been shot!

He fell backward, and there was Maria, looking down at him and saying something that he couldn’t hear. He was too busy trying to take a breath.

Then Scorpion’s face arrived. He looked angry. “Where are you shot?” he yelled.

Why is he mad at me?

“I saw it hit his chest,” Maria said.

The anger turned to relief. Maybe amusement.

Scorpion lifted Tristan by the collar of his vest and stuffed his hand down the gap. A lightning bolt of pain launched through Tristan, from neck to groin. He yelled.

“I thought your color looked too good,” Scorpion said. “That vest just paid for itself, young man.” He ruffled Tristan’s hair, just the way his dad used to.

Keeping his grip on the collar of the vest, Scorpion pulled him up to a sitting position. “Cracked a rib in the worst case,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”

Scorpion turned to Maria. “Come on up front. Help us navigate out of here.”

Maria lingered for just a second or two. She touched his cheek and smiled. It was a look he didn’t know how to interpret. Surely, it didn’t mean what he wanted it to.

“What?” Tristan asked.

“You remind me of someone I once loved very much. I’m glad you are not hurt.” She turned and moved to the front with the others.

What the hell had she been telling him? Could it really be that-

The world erupted in blinding white light.

Big Guy yelled, “Holy shit!” Their vehicle swerved violently and hit something hard. This time, whatever they’d hit won the battle.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

As soon as Palma told him the story of Maria’s rescue, and the bombings, Felix realized that they would attempt to use his tunnels as a means to get out of the country. The question was which one?

He had a vast array of smuggling tunnels-at least eight of them currently in operation-that circulated literally tons of drugs into the United States every year. The Americans were such morons. While they distracted themselves with debates over whether or not to built a multibillion-dollar fence along the border, Felix and a few of his competitors owned the subterranean real estate-just as surely as they owned American Border Patrol agents and the owner of the properties on the other side where the tunnels rose back to the surface.

Every now and then, Felix would tip off the El Paso police and the local news media so that they could discover one of his less productive tunnels and make a show for the American public about the hard work they were doing to stop the flow of drugs into their country. Each new discovery would boost a bureaucrat’s career. In their gratitude, they would only look but so hard for the next tunnel.

As a new generation of politicians and civil servants came to power in America-many of them current or reformed consumers of the products Felix created-it became progressively easier to smuggle drugs into the United States. As long as he handed the Americans enough victories in their drug war to allow the politicians to preen, and he cooperated with the Central Intelligence Agency to provide protection for their clandestine launch platforms and listening bases throughout Central America, they stayed out of his way, going so far as to falsify reports to their handlers back in Langley. For that last part-the falsified reports-Felix paid several chiefs of station up to twice their legitimate salaries in thank-you gifts.

Of them all, Trevor Munro had been the most demanding-and, in the end, the most ungrateful.

Until yesterday, Felix had never believed Munro’s claims that he’d had no knowledge of the Colombian incursion