Outside and visible through the gaping hole in the wall, the second police truck cut left, heading around the side of the house, toward the garage, with the two Federal Police trucks following. “If they cut off the doors back there, we won’t get out!” shouted Moore, his phone once more vibrating. That’d be Towers calling to warn him about the attack, a warning he was pretty sure he no longer needed.
Zuniga’s men in the living room — one okay, the other shot but still clutching a rifle — began firing at the pickup’s driver, who was returning fire, along with the guys on the flatbed, the walls bursting apart under the fire.
And the second that machine-gunner opened up, rounds chewing into the fieldstone fireplace, Moore, Corrales, and Zuniga burst down a hallway, heading toward the back of the house. Moore cursed. You didn’t need any more motivation than that.
Between the gunfire thundering in the living room and the shots booming outside, Moore had a flashback to Forward Operating Base Pharaoh in Afghanistan, where the gods of thunder and lightning had warred with each other all night. The news media had been calling Juarez a war zone for years, but Moore hadn’t fully appreciated that label until now.
“Give me a fucking gun!” screamed Corrales. “I want a fucking piece right now!”
Zuniga ignored him, and they raced into the master bedroom, replete with a four-poster bed the size of a swimming pool. Here the walls were adorned with the framed silhouettes of nude women and fantastic art deco pieces depicting South American landscapes that must have cost Zuniga a fortune. Moore had the better part of two seconds to appreciate those pieces before he spotted another pistol, this one the requisite Belgian-made police blaster, sitting atop a chest of drawers. He grabbed it, flicked off the safety, and spun back toward the sound of heavy footfalls in the hallway. One of the guys from the pickup had escaped from Zuniga’s men and was running straight toward them, both arms raised, pistols in his fists.
Moore got off two shots, hitting the guy in the left breast and groin before rolling out of incoming fire, which must’ve gone high and thumped into the bedroom ceiling, as dust trickled down into his eyes.
“Holy shit,” cried Corrales, staring wide-eyed over Moore’s marksmanship.
“Go!” Moore ordered him.
Zuniga was waving them on into the master bath, where a closet to his left opened into a massive wardrobe at least thirty feet wide, with a dressing table in the center. He shoved a key in the lock of a pair of tall wooden cabinet doors, swung them open, and grabbed a rifle, which he shoved into Corrales’s hands. Then he fetched another and thrust it toward Moore, who cursed in surprise.
“Where the hell did you get these?” Moore cried.
“eBay, gringo. Now come on!”
Moore could only shake his head in astonishment as he adjusted his grip on the Colt M16A2 with thirty-round magazine, standard U.S. Marine Corps issue and simply a larger, heavier version of the M4A1 carbines he’d used as a SEAL operator.
What was Zuniga going to show them next? An M1A1 Abrams Main Battle Tank parked in a secret subterranean garage?
Moore thumbed the rifle’s selector lever, which included the safety and the semiautomatic options as well as a three-round burst option that saved you ammo. He chose semiautomatic, then leaned over toward Corrales. “Here, dumbass, the safety’s here.” He threw the lever and flashed a sarcastic thumbs-up.
The kid returned a middle finger.
And in that second, Moore swung his rifle up, past Corrales’s face, and shot the heavyset guy who’d just appeared in the doorway, holding his pistol with both hands.
Corrales screamed, cursed, then swung around and watched as the guy collapsed in a bloody heap.
“What the fuck?” Corrales said with a gasp. He raced over to the guy and hunkered down, examining a tattoo on the guy’s biceps: the circular image of an Aztec warrior with his pierced tongue extended. “They’re not Fernando’s regular guys,” said Corrales. “He’s Azteca. From the prison. An assassination squad.”
“Hired by your old boss?” asked Moore.
“No time!” cried Zuniga. “Come on!”
Corrales rose and started toward Moore. “We’re fucking dead, dude. We are
“I don’t think so.”
They followed Zuniga toward the other side of the closet, where he fumbled nervously with a key and finally opened another door. He reached in and threw a light switch.
“Where to now?” asked Corrales.
“Up,” answered Zuniga.
“Up? Are you kidding me? What the fuck, old man! How’re we getting out!”
“Shut up!” Zuniga faced Moore. “Now, Senor Howard? Lock the door behind us!”
Moore did so.
Zuniga led them down a narrow hall, with their shoulders brushing the walls as they reached a metal staircase with about a dozen steps up to another door. Moore understood now. They were going to the flat roof above the garage and could find cover behind the surrounding parapet and drainage lines.
The door swung open, and across the rooftop was Zuniga’s two-man security detail crouched along the parapet and exchanging fire with the men below. The second white pickup truck had parked outside the garage doors in an attempt to block at least two of them, while the two Federal Police trucks had stopped about thirty yards back, the cops there hunkered down behind their pickups and triggering off volleys of fire when they could to pin down the others. From somewhere in the distance came the rhythmic and approaching drone of a helicopter’s rotors.
Corrales rushed to the edge of the parapet, and, one-handing his M16, cut loose a volley on the truck below, where the machine-gunner had positioned himself behind the back wheel.
Moore slung his arm beneath Corrales’s chin, choking him and forcing him back from the ledge as the gunner’s response chewed into the parapet and through Corrales’s ghost. “Stay the fuck back!” Moore screamed. The stupid punk would get himself killed before he had a chance to talk. And that, Moore knew, would be just his luck.
Zuniga shouted to his men to cover him, while he ran beside the parapet to the other side of the roof, facing the back of the house, where the drainpipe ran down the wall to the ground. “Here!” he cried. “We can climb down here!”
Moore nodded his okay, was about to turn to Corrales—
When the door leading out onto the roof swung open, and one of the Aztecas, his face cast in half-shadow, lifted an AK-47 and let loose a vicious spray that tore into Zuniga’s chest and sent him staggering back toward the parapet.
Moore was only a half-second behind in his reaction, but he couldn’t save the man. He squeezed off at least ten rounds into the Azteca, drumming the guy back into the door, where he slumped, leaving a blood trail above him.
And by the time Moore turned his head, Zuniga was already gone, having tripped over the parapet to vanish over the edge.
Moore rushed over and leaned out for a look. Zuniga lay there, crucified against the dirt, his shirt still blossoming with blood.
Zuniga had asked Moore those questions back at the Sacred Heart Church. They both knew real pain, and now one of them had finally found relief.
Corrales joined Moore, took one look at Zuniga, then cursed at the guys below and ran forward to the front ledge. There, he cut loose with his rifle before Moore could stop him. He’d removed his sling but was still favoring his right arm and swinging the weapon wildly.
Gritting his teeth, Moore rose and sprinted toward the idiot, who was still firing and drawing the return fire of
