enough to rig it to blow inward, nor were they even aware of expansion products such as Dexpan that would allow them to crack apart the platform’s pilings in a much safer and more regulated way. If they had C-4 charges set below the surface, there was a good chance they’d hit the panic button and not only take out the structure but kill any SEALs in the water because those explosions would blow outward.
“Team Two, this is Mako Two, again. Got signs up top! Repeat! Got signs — charges rigged beneath the railing on south and east sides …”
But now that was not Carmichael’s voice in Moore’s ear; it was JTF leader Towers. “The van is pulling up outside! Moore, did you copy that? The van is there!”
Moore was still lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Towers shouted again, and reality came in a hard shudder through his shoulders. He sat up and rolled to his right, just as a beam of light struck his eyes and a gunshot pinged off the wall behind him, fragments of concrete striking his neck where the balaclava failed to reach. He lifted the monocular, spotted the second guard crouched about three meters away from that circular hole cut into the wall, and without hesitation returned fire, squeezing off four rounds until a faint cry came from ahead and a lit flashlight rolled across the floor. A glance through the monocular showed the second guy lying on his stomach, blood leaking from his mouth.
Cursing, Moore whirled back and bolted to the entrance. He seized the first guard’s body and dragged it away as fast as he could, panting and finally reaching the second guard’s position. He looked around.
No, this wasn’t good: The conduit stretched out for about thirty more feet, then terminated in a solid stone wall. Even if he dragged the two guards all the way to the end, the simple flick of a flashlight would expose them.
Every good ambush always included a plan for hiding the bodies of the guards you killed — thus Moore decided at that moment that this wasn’t a very good plan.
He jogged back toward the grating as voices sounded from outside. They’d driven the van right into the drainage ditch and parked outside the grating. These guys were even higher-ranking geniuses than the two who’d been following him outside Corrales’s hotel. Or maybe they felt safe enough to make such a bold move — driving right up to the grating? After all, who would stop them? The local police? The Feds? That they operated this audaciously was unsettling, but to make himself feel better, Moore decided they were idiots, and even though his plan wasn’t very good, it’d be enough to bring down these fools.
He climbed out past the grating and lifted his suppressed Glock at the group. He counted six young females, all Asian, as Towers had indicated, along with four boys no more than sixteen or seventeen, each one wearing a heavy backpack presumably jammed with bricks of marijuana and cocaine.
Two men in their mid- to late twenties and wearing New York Yankees jackets had AK-47 rifles slung over their shoulders and held pistols on the group as they all stood there, balancing themselves on the grassy slope. The men were the
“Who the fuck are you?” asked the taller of the two
“I’m a Boston Red Sox fan,” Moore answered, then shot the guy in the face. There had been no guilt, no hesitation, nothing but action and reaction. If Moore felt anything, it was utter repulsion for these scumbags who’d stooped to this level. To aid and abet an organization involved in the enslavement of other human beings was to reserve for yourself a special hotel room located in the deepest pit of hell. The taller punk had already slid his door key past the electronic swipe and now inhaled fire.
As the women screamed and the boys darted back for the van, Moore turned his Glock on the second guy, who had a room reserved next to his buddy.
The punk raised his gun.
Moore pulled his trigger.
And the
But Moore was already jerking back as the second guy spun sideways and collapsed, only to go rolling down the ditch and back toward the van. He’d taken a round in the head.
Towers, who was presumably watching it all go down from the other side of the ditch, spoke rapidly over the radio: “Get the women to go through the tunnel. We can’t do anything to help them till they get to the other side. I’ll get down there and take care of the bodies.”
“Okay,” grunted Moore.
“Get those backpacks loaded into the van,” he ordered the boys. “Right now! Then I want all of you back here! I’m a good guy. I’m sending you through the tunnel! I’m a good guy. Let’s go!”
As the boys rushed back to the truck, Moore began collecting the weapons from the two
With the backpacks returned to the van, Moore shouted for the boys to follow the girls, and he directed them from the rear, heavily weighed down by two AKs, extra pistols, and his own weapons. Once they were all inside, Moore picked up one of the
He glanced back at the group and said one word in English: “America.”
The girls, a few of whom were crying now, shook their heads in fear, but one, the tallest and perhaps the oldest, shoved her way from the back and pushed herself into the tunnel. She screamed back at the other girls, her Chinese coming in the rat-tat-tat of a machine gun. Seeing her courage and hearing her admonishments, the others came forward, one by one, and eased themselves into the narrow hole.
“When you get to the other side, you will have help. I don’t want you to ever work for the cartels again,” Moore told the boys. “No matter what they say. No matter what they do. Never work for them again. Okay?”
“Okay, senor,” said one boy. “Okay.”
Within a minute all of them were in the tunnel and Moore was on the phone with Ansara. “They’re heading your way, bro. They’re all yours.”
“Roger that. We’ll take ’em quietly so they don’t try to back out.”
The girls would be processed and deported back to China — unless some humanitarian group was able to intervene on their behalf. The boys would no doubt be processed, and if there weren’t any warrants on them, they, too, would be deported back to Mexico, which was why Moore implored them not to return to working for the cartels. The sad thing was, most of them would ignore him, especially once they understood how the process worked. They’d take the risk again.
Moore then called Luis Torres. “I’ve got an early birthday present for your boss.”
“How much?”
“A very nice load.”
What Torres, Zuniga, and the rest of the Sinaloa Cartel didn’t know was that Moore and Towers would inject each brick with a GPS beacon so that once those bricks were smuggled across the border, they’d be immediately located and confiscated by authorities. Moore’s bosses would never allow him to knowingly let the drugs pass into the United States without some way of retrieving them, and that was certainly understandable. However, as tiny as the injection holes would be, Moore was certain that Zuniga and his cronies would carefully scrutinize each brick for any signs of tampering. Moore and Towers would have to carefully choose their injection sites along the seams in the tape used to seal the bricks.
“Okay, we’re good to go out here,” said Towers.
Moore’s phone rang again: Ansara. “First few girls have come through. Took them nice and quiet. Excellent work, boss man. Score one for the team.”
“Dude,” Moore said with a sigh of exhaustion. “We’re just getting started. It’s going to be a very long
