His radio.
In an instant, I calculate the distance between us. About twenty feet, but still more than enough space for him to access his radio before I make it over to him. And then what? Pull the knife from his back, slice him across the throat? Won’t matter how I kill him, because by then he’ll have already used the radio. Maybe he won’t be able to alert the other guards to exactly what’s happened, but any slight warning is more than I can allow.
I have no choice, I realize, and pull one of the pistols from my belt.
I place a bullet in the back of his head.
Despite the silencer, the single round shatters the night’s stillness.
For a moment I don’t move, just stand there staring at the dead guard.
Atticus says, “They’re coming for you.”
“How many?”
“All of them.”
Two
The Diaz compound sits on the top of a bluff overlooking the Pacific. A chain-link fence circles the compound, some trees and bushes lining spots of the fence. I can’t see the men hurrying in my direction, but I can hear them—the heavy pounding of their boots on the ground coming from both directions—and I start to take a step toward the shadows where I’d been hiding before, when I pause.
Atticus says, “You’ve got less than ten seconds.”
Ignoring him, I pull out the strip of firecrackers from my pocket—I’d purchased them from a kid selling fireworks on the street earlier today on a whim—and extract a lighter from my other pocket and prime the lighter as Atticus says, “Five seconds,” and then once the fuse lights, I fling the strip of firecrackers toward the end of the bluff, right toward the narrow trail I’d used to climb up here.
I slip back into the shadows, right next to the first guard’s body, and I watch as the other men hurry into view. There are five of them. Each carries an AKM at the ready. They pause when they see the two bodies on the ground. They look up at each other but say nothing. One of them notices the divots in the dirt from the dead guard’s boots. He starts to look toward me, but right then the firecrackers go off.
All of the men turn and open fire at the end of the bluff. As they do, I step out of the shadows, the dead guard’s rifle in hand, and mow down the other guards, sweeping the barrel from left to right, right to left.
Six seconds, that’s all it takes, and then all seven guards are down.
Atticus says, “Three others still inside the fence.”
“Where?”
“Right by the entrance.”
I toss the spent rifle aside and start running toward the entrance. As I run, I take a flashbang grenade off my belt, pull the pin, and toss it over the fence when I’m just ten yards from the open gate.
On the other side of the fence, the flashbang grenade goes off. I hear one of the men shout something, and then there’s brief gunfire directed toward the explosion. By then I step around the corner, a gun in hand, and take out two of the guards who have their backs to me, two bullets each to the back of their heads, but where the fuck is the third?
Someone shouts behind me, ordering me in Spanish to stop and drop my weapon.
I start to turn.
The man shouts again, telling me to drop my weapon.
In my ear, Atticus says, “Give me a second.”
I’m not sure what this means, and I’m not sure this guard will give me more than a second before he drops me.
The man behind me shouts again in Spanish.
“Drop the fucking gun.”
It’s the last thing I want to do, but I let the SIG fall to the ground.
I whisper, “Atticus?”
In my ear: “Another second.”
Behind me, the man says, “Where are the others?”
I say nothing.
“Puta, where are the others?”
My hands held up at my sides, I slowly turn.
The guard’s young, almost a kid. Just like the others, he carries an AKM, but it doesn’t waver in his hands.
I answer in English.
“Only me.”
“Bullshit.”
I just smile—and watch as one of the quadcopters takes a nosedive into the back of the guard’s head.
He stumbles sideways.
The distraction gives me only two seconds, but it’s enough time for me to pull the other pistol from my belt and place two bullets in the guard’s face.
As the guard hits the ground, I do a sweep of the area for any other surprises.
The compound sits one hundred yards away. Several pickup trucks and SUVs are parked beside it. The lights are on inside, but I can’t see any movement.
Crouching to retrieve the dropped pistol, placing it back in its holster, I ask, “Anybody slip out the back?”
“Not yet.”
“What side am I looking for?”
“The east side.”
I start toward the house, moving on a diagonal to give me space. Almost every light is lit inside the house, and so far I haven’t seen any movement, which is disconcerting. Ernesto Diaz is here, isn’t he? From the limited surveillance I’ve been able to conduct the past few days, the answer is yes. I did take out ten of his men, but what if they were just decoys and the house is empty?
“Atticus, those nifty little toys of yours can’t see the heat signatures inside the house, can they?”
“I’m afraid they cannot.”
I’ve reached the pickup trucks and SUVs and carefully weave my way through them, my gun at the ready in case anybody’s hiding inside one of the cabs. Underneath a few of the vehicles I leave surprises and then keep moving closer to the house.
I spot the electrical box on the side right where Atticus said it would be. I leave another surprise and then swiftly move toward the front, keeping close to the house for cover. It’s been a full minute now since I entered the fence and nothing’s happened, and
