Gunner adjusted the specialized pack attached to his back, containing the tools necessary to fulfill their mission. Cam fidgeted with hers as well.
Gunner complained about the extraordinary gear strapped to his back. “This is like one of those turtle-shell-shaped boxes the tourists attach to the roof of their crossover on their way to see Mickey freakin’ Mouse.”
“I kinda look at it as being pregnant in reverse,” quipped Cam. “You know, instead of carrying a kid on the front side, it’s on my back.”
Gunner regained his focus and went through the final safety checks with the airmen. After they confirmed their comms were fully operable, the lights dimmed in the rear of the WC-130J, indicating they were a go.
The two of them slowly made their way to the aft ramp with the assistance of the airmen. The suggestion to skydive on this mission had been Gunner’s. The decision to assist in the operation had been Cam’s. There was simply no better way to achieve their goal, and the timing couldn’t be better. It was either undertake this dangerous, psychotic insertion now or face much tougher odds of success later.
Gunner had worked with a lot of operators throughout his career. All of them would’ve simply shaken their heads and laughed at the suggestion. Suicide, they’d say. Never been done would be the assumption. Even if you pull it off, the mission couldn’t be completed with just two people. You’d need at least a team of six or eight.
Gunner knew better. He had confidence in Cam and the entire Gray Fox team supporting them on land. A mission of this sort could only be accomplished by taking advantage of the element of surprise. He laughed to himself. This would certainly be a surprise, all right. Hell, I’ll be surprised, too.
He turned to his partner and gave her a thumbs-up. “Ready, Cam?”
“You’re an asshole,” she responded through the comms and raised her middle finger to her childhood friend for the second time in the space of ten minutes.
One of the airmen stood between them and counted them down using his gloved hand.
Five … four … three … two … one.
He waved both of his arms from the front of his body to the rear. Another airman slapped both of the operatives on the back and pointed toward the open space. Neither of them hesitated as they walked deliberately into the dark sky and jumped.
“Ride or die!” shouted Gunner as they were airborne.
“Ride or die!” Cam joined in.
The air around them was calm, devoid of clouds or precipitation. Above, the sky was dark, but one could see for trillions of miles. Neither spoke as they raced back to Earth, focusing instead on the task at hand.
Their specialized Devtac ballistic helmets provided them onboard telemetry that delivered data on speed and direction in the event course corrections were required. A small radar provided them a marker for the target landing zone as well as a red blinking blip indicating the location of their partner. It was important the two not run into each other so their chutes didn’t get entangled during the final drop to Earth.
Gunner could see the lights of their target getting closer and rapidly expanding in his field of vision. A timer on this helmet screen provided the precise moment when they were to begin the final steps of their descent. In unison, as they were prompted by the computer, both Gunner and Cam plunged the toggles of their chutes toward their feet, locking their muscular arms in place to avoid losing control.
Gunner’s weight had carried him slightly farther ahead of Cam. As a result, he was prompted to open his parachute first. As the canopy began to flare, Cam sped past him slightly, and then she engaged her chute as well.
Gunner’s muscles burned as he controlled his chute to remain on course. He had drifted off the target ever so slightly. He struggled to adjust the tension on the cords, a herculean effort under the circumstances.
“Come on,” he muttered into the comms before shouting to himself, “Turn. Damn it!”
Then, like bony fingers reaching out of a haunted grave, wind from the eye wall of Hurricane Archie reached out and grabbed Gunner’s chute, pulling him into the violent tropical cyclone that enveloped them.
Chapter Two
72 Hours Earlier …
Los Zetas Cartel Marina
Carvajal, Tamaulipas, Mexico
Abduwali Ali was a long way from home. The Somalian sat in the back seat of the Mercedes E-class, staring at the barren landscape along the Mexican Gulf Coast. His driver, a young soldier in the Los Zetas cartel, was also his bodyguard. Not because Abduwali was the only African in the state of Tamaulipas and looked at with disdain by the Mexicans, nor because he was presumed to be a wealthy financier. Abduwali was nothing more than an asset. A valuable commodity used by the notorious Mexican drug cartel in their criminal enterprises.
He was once a man on the run, even in his hometown of Mogadishu—the lawless coastal capital of Somalia. Warlords ran the city, but the price put on his head by the British government made his life expendable. After several attempts to bring him in, dead or alive, as they say, he gathered his laptop computer and escaped the country.
He’d found a specialty that led to riches. Many young Somalian men die before they’re thirty. Others keep their heads under the radar and avoid the criminal activities rampant in Mogadishu. They become fisherman or farmers. They avoid the military and the police. They try not to make eye contact with the local clan warlords.
First, Abduwali was a fisherman. Then he became a pirate.
His career as a burcad badeed, an ocean robber, became legendary. Abduwali was a savior for the poor of Mogadishu, a city wrought with poverty and disease. As he
