Hell Dawn

“Make it three.”

“Roger that.”

Before he could make another move, a police car skidded to a halt twenty yards to his left. Doors popped open on either side and a pair of county deputies surged from the vehicle, guns drawn. Anticipating this, Lyons had already holstered the Colt, exchanging it for his fake Justice Department credentials. He raised his hands, flipping open his badge case as he did, and played it cool. Experience told him that a downed officer put everyone on edge, igniting a volatile combination of fury and fear. He felt it burning in his own gut and wanted to chase down the bastards who’d shot Gadgets and the other fallen officer. He also didn’t want to waste precious seconds tangling with the locals. One of the officers, his gun drawn, approached him. From the corner of his eye, Lyons could see another deputy, a sergeant, closing in from the opposite direction.

The officer snagged Lyons’s ID from his hand, stepped back and inspected it. Holstering his weapon, the guy returned Lyons’s credentials and other officers emerged from cover.

“The other guys told us to look for you, Agent Irons,” the cop said. “We lost your shooter.”

Lyons nodded. “I’m going. I hope everything turns out okay for the lady.” Without waiting for the man’s reply, he turned and walked away.

CHAPTER FOUR

Fox thrust himself inside a doorway as a pair of police cars whizzed by, sirens blaring. The move was more of a reflex than a rational action. He’d spent too many years in the juvenile justice system to regard the police as friends, even under the current circumstances. The CIA—or at least someone within the Agency—already had sold him out. Who was to say the police around here weren’t also bought and paid for?

Moving quickly, he covered two blocks on foot, his gaze cast downward, though he continued taking in his surroundings with surreptitious glances.

Pain seared through his ribs, causing him to wince with each step. The knife thrust had been a glancing one, striking bone, skittering off it, without biting into the vital organs beneath his rib cage. But Fox knew he was losing lots of blood. He could feel his warm life fluids grow cool as the breeze whipped inside his long coat. Each step caused bolts of pain to emanate from the wound, and he clenched his jaw to keep the pain in check. Gunshots continued to ring in his ears, reminding him of the rare occasions when as a teen he’d attended concerts and his ears would buzz for twenty-four hours as they recovered from the audio assault.

Taking his hand away from the wound, he found it covered with blood. In fact, blood had soaked his wrist and then his sleeve, turning the fabric black almost up to his elbow. Unbidden, the face of the thug he’d just killed flickered across his mind and he felt his stomach roll. He saw the man’s gaze transform from one of controlled rage, a predatory confidence, to shock and finally helplessness as he realized he was dying. Fox had shoved the man away and exploded from the alley, passing the fallen police officer, leaving her also to die as he’d tried to save his own skin.

Tears stung his eyes as he chastised himself for his cowardice. How many more people were going to have to die because of him? Because of what he’d wrought with his own hands? His vision began to blur and his footsteps grew heavier. Shit! He’d lost so much blood that his body was ready to give out, to shut down, if not forever, at least for a time to heal.

Move!

He passed a couple of slab houses covered in peeling paint and fronted by small rock gardens and spotty grass. In the backyard of one, laundry hung from a line, blowing in the breeze. In the other, a black Labrador retriever stood on his hindquarters, his front paws hooked over the fence, barking at him and wagging its tail in welcome. He kept moving and hoped its noise didn’t prompt the home’s occupants to peer through their window where they’d see a blood-soaked man lumbering down the street.

He was beginning to feel shaky, and knew he couldn’t keep walking forever. Ahead, he saw a refuge, a wooden shed painted an odd green color that he guessed matched his skin tone at this particular moment. It sat inside a fenced yard, its door seized by the strong winds whipping through town, fanning open and closed.

The structure lay forty or so yards away. It might as well have been a mile for the way he felt. Eyes locked on the building, he stumbled to the corner and felt his legs grow rubbery. His hand lashed out and he caught hold of a street sign’s metal post. Leaning his body against it, his eyes slammed shut and a seductive blackness began to envelop his mind, summoning him to surrender to it.

The cell phone in his pocket trilled, pulling him back out. Dipping a hand into his pocket, he retrieved the phone and answered the call. “Hello.”

“Gabe?” Even in his shaky condition, Fox recognized Kurtzman’s voice immediately.

“Yeah.”

“Where the hell are you?”

“Good to hear your voice.”

“Yeah. C’mon. Where the hell are you?”

“Not sure. Some street.”

“You sound like hell. You injured.”

“Guy stabbed me, Aaron. Cut my side open. Hurts. Like. Hell.”

“Understood, brother. Where are you at? We’ll come get you.”

Fox peered up at the street sign, trying to bring the words into focus. “Peak Street,” Fox said. “I’m on Peak Street.”

“Okay, we’re on our way.”

“Man, I killed two people.”

“Right. You did what you had to. No worries, huh?”

“I didn’t want to. I feel like shit.”

“Like I said, no worries. We’ll work stuff out. Just hang on for a minute. I’ve got guys coming for you. Plainclothes. A mouthy blond guy and a gray-haired Hispanic fellow. They’ll take good care of you.”

His eyes slammed shut again until Fox heard a car engine growl to his left, prompting him to turn and look. He watched as a van rolled up to the curb. In his delirium, he’d lost his feel for time.

“That was fast,” he said.

“What was fast?” Kurtzman replied.

“Your guys are here.”

He heard Kurtzman mutter an oath. “Those aren’t my people, guy. Can you move?”

“Don’t. Think. So.” His tongue felt fat and clumsy, his mouth dry.

“Roger that. We’re on our way.”

Fox sank to his knees, his head whirling. He heard the dull thunk of an automatic transmission slipping into park, followed by a door opening. The idling engine buzzed in his ear like an insistent insect, but he kept his eyes shut as he felt himself slip closer to unconsciousness.

Boots thudded, and he cracked an eye. A pair of snakeskin cowboy boots came into view, the leather creaking as the wearer bent to kneel next to him. An instant later he saw a face, Latino, he thought, and he felt relief wash over himself. A mouthy blond guy and a gray-haired Hispanic fellow, Kurtzman had said. Did the guy have gray hair? Fox thought so, hoped so.

He fell unconscious as Cortez grabbed him under the arms and dragged him roughly toward a stolen Hyundai.

BLANCANALES SPRINTED toward the spot where Fox had claimed to have fallen. He was in good shape by almost anyone’s standards. Still, he felt his lungs burn for air as he exerted himself at the mountain town’s altitude.

From two blocks away, he heard a car door slam. Looking up, he saw two men dragging Fox toward a small red sedan. He poured on the speed, snatching one of the Beretta’s from beneath his coat as he did.

He also recognized the man who’d shot Schwarz. Blancanales’s heart drummed harder as rage flared inside him, causing him to run that much harder. The men hadn’t seen him yet and he stepped into the grass median between the sidewalk and the street, hoping the softer terrain would eliminate the sound of his pounding feet.

Lyons was across the street, surging forward at a similar pace, his form hidden behind parked cars. Unsure of what they’d find, the two men had decided to leave some distance between them, rather than bunching into a knot, forming an easy target.

“That’s our shooter,” Blancanales said.

“Right,” Lyons replied.

“You got the shot?”

“Negative. Too far away. Too clustered.”

“Let me fix that.”

Lyons darted out from between a pair of parked cars and uttered a war whoop. The sudden flurry of sound and motion caused the three men to look up from their captive. The guy in the black coat, the one who’d shot Schwarz, went on the defensive immediately. Crouching, he spotted Lyons heading his way and capped off two shots that whizzed well past the approaching figure. Lyons held his own fire, in part because of the proximity of houses and because the men remained too tightly wound around Fox. There was a good chance that Fox would take a hit.

Lyons ran in a zigzag pattern as the air around grew heavy with gunfire. Bullets perforated car windows, tail- and headlights, or glanced off steel. He watched as the third man dragged Fox’s body toward the car, opening up more precious space between him and the shooters with each passing second.

One of the hardmen got brave. He separated from the others and unleashed a volley of gunfire at Lyons. The former cop dived forward, rolled, before coming up in a prone position. The Python thundered twice more, spitting jagged columns of flame from the barrel. A moment later the shooter flew backward, as though hit dead-center by a wrecking ball. The guy in the black duster reacted, wheeling toward Lyons and unloading another deadly barrage of fire. The bullets chewed into the ground, showering Lyons with dirt and grass. Without aiming, he emptied the Python at his attacker, hoping the slugs at least would throw the guy off his stride.

The guy’s weapon went dry at the same time, forcing him to break off the attack. Lyons watched as the shooter let the submachine gun fall on its strap, spin and head for the vehicle’s driver’s side. The other man already had succeeded in stuffing Fox into the back seat of the car, and was scrambling to grab a weapon from under his jacket.

Popping the Python’s cylinder, Lyons was emptying spent brass even as he came to his feet. Stuffing a hand inside his jacket pocket, his fingers encircled a speed-loader and he charged the weapon on the run, completing the task in the same microsecond that the other guy freed a pistol from its holster and began to raise it.

Before Lyons could fire, the man suddenly stiffened, his expression morphing from one of shock to terror. Wounds sprang open across his torso. His knees suddenly gave out beneath him, and he crashed forward to the ground.

In the same instant, Lyons caught a glimpse of Blancanales heading for the car. However, the driver gunned the engine and sent the vehicle hurtling straight toward the commando, forcing him to leap out of its path.

Even as the car gathered speed, Lyons already was rocketing forward, trying to catch up with it. Legs pumping like pistons, the Able Team leader surged after the car, trying to get to it before it hit at full cruising speed. It was a wasted effort. In the seconds it took him to reach its starting point, the vehicle already had put another two blocks between itself and him.

He watched as it blew through a stop sign, nearly colliding with an oncoming car before disappearing over a hill. Stopping next to Blancanales, he radioed the information to Kurtzman.

“Shit,” the computer expert said. “Gabe’s as good as dead.”

“Scratch that, mister,” Lyons replied. “We’re not done here. Not by a long shot. Pass along the description to the police while Pol and I try to round up a vehicle. We’re going to keep looking for him.”

“Roger that,” Kurtzman said, his voice telegraphing the same doubt that Lyons’s felt roiling in his own gut.

“And tell Jack we need to get that bird up in the air. I want a visual on this SOB, like five minutes ago. Got it?”

“But Jack needs to airlift Gadgets—”

“Jack needs to pick up the pursuit.”

“Carl—”

“Don’t even go there, Bear. It’s one life against the potential loss of thousands. You read?”

“Understood.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Cortez navigated the car out of the city limits, heading north, higher into the Rocky Mountains. Checking his watch, he smiled. He still had three minutes to reach the rendezvous point. The mission had come about as close to going to hell as one could imagine, with this crazy group of federal agents busting up his play. But he still had time to salvage the whole thing, if he kept his head about him.

A groan sounded from behind him, and he glanced over the backrest to scan his prisoner. The guy’s skin was pale, and he was shuddering, most likely slipping into shock. Cortez sent a mental prayer heavenward that the guy would make it. If the guy died, if Cortez failed to produce the goods, he knew the consequences of that failure. Miguel Mendoza wasn’t a man you wanted to disappoint under any circumstances, but particularly not when a big payday was involved. Cortez didn’t know all the details, but he definitely knew that the guy in the back seat was worth lots of money to someone. But not if he died.

Driving with one hand, Cortez torched a cigarette and puffed away, squinting through the blue-gray smoke at the road ahead. As it was, the guy was going to be pissed off at him. After all, the simple snatch-and-grab had turned into a bloodbath with at least two downed cops, a handful of his own guys dead or missing and perhaps even some wounded civilians. So Cortez had no delusions about the warmth of the welcome he’d receive when he returned to Mexico.

Glancing into the back seat, he eyed the guy again and shook his head.

“Easy, gringo,” he called over his shoulder. His English was nearly flawless from years of studying criminal justice at UCLA before returning to his homeland. “We’ll fix you up real good. You’re our little cash cow.”

Two minutes later he pulled onto the side of the road, parked it and exited. Taking out his cellular telephone, he hit the redial button. When the verbal prompt came, he hit three more buttons and terminated the call, tossing the phone back inside the car.

Grabbing the big man under the shoulders, he dragged him from the back of the vehicle, pulled him about thirty yards from it and laid him out flat on the dirt and sparse grass. Moments later a pair of helicopters crested a nearby mountain peak and knifed toward him. The crew worked quickly, strapping the prisoner onto a stretcher and loading him onto the helicopter. Two more guys, both heavily armed, sprinted for the car.

Mendoza’s son, Bernardo, appeared in the door of one of the choppers and gave Cortez a questioning look. He replied with a nod and the younger man hopped from the craft, an olive drab duffel bag in his hand, and strode up to Cortez.

Taking the bag, Cortez ran after the two gunners. Sliding down a small incline next to the car, he ran to the two men, both of whom gave him a questioning look.

Pulling open the rear passenger’s-side door, he stuffed the bag into the space on the floor between the front and back seats.

“More ammunition,” he said. “In case you need it. Now go, get out of here.”

The driver nodded. Cortez slammed the door and dismissed the two men by banging a fist on the roof of the car, watching as the vehicle backed up, then drove back onto the road and roared away. Grinning, he sprinted for the helicopters and boarded the nearer one.

Moments later, both craft were aloft.

Cortez pulled out a black box that featured several switches.

The Mexican stared at the box for a moment. He realized it was only a matter of time before the police caught up with the Hyundai. Most likely, the pigs would force the vehicle from the road and take the men into custody. He’d like to think his people were dead-enders, that they’d sooner take a bullet than sell him out. Sure, he’d like to think that. But he was a realist. If the police applied the right amount of pressure, his men would give him up in a heartbeat. He knew this because he’d do the same to them, in even less time.

Casually, he flicked a switch and snuffed out both men’s lives. Just the first of many to die this day, he thought.

MIGUEL MENDOZA FINISHED his morning swim in his Olympic-size pool. He climbed the ladder out of the deep end, water sluicing off his body. A young maid was on hand, a towel in her hand. He snapped his fingers and she unfurled it and wrapped it around his shoulders.

He strode up from the pool to his terrace. His wife, Rosa, looked up from her newspaper and smiled at him, exposing perfect white teeth. Her wavy hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a long T-shirt over her bikini-clad body as per his instructions, and he was pleased.

“How was your swim?” she asked, still smiling.

“It was fine, my love. Thank you.”

He walked past and admired her, like another man might admire a fast car. She was thirty years his junior, and he considered her his most prized possession, something to be trotted out, shown off and appreciated by others. He guessed that that was how others felt about great art, something he’d never developed a taste for. But like other treasures, he knew others wanted her. And he made sure he tucked her safely away, particularly when he wasn’t around to watch her.

She chewed on a small piece of grapefruit while he seated himself. He scanned the smooth concrete walls that surrounded the estate and congratulated himself once again on the stronghold he’d created for himself and his family. The maid handed him a short-sleeved cotton shirt and helped him shrug into it. He snatched the newspaper from a second maid’s hands and whisked them both away with a wave of his hand.

“Darling,” Rosa said, “I want to take the children to town today. We are going shopping. After that I promised them that we’d eat shrimp at the old man’s restaurant on the beach.”

He nodded. “That’s fine. You’ll take Carlos and his people with you.”

Carlos was his personal security chief and one of the few men Mendoza trusted to guard his wife. The man was exceedingly loyal to Mendoza, almost as though he were one of his own children. As he spoke, he saw something flicker in the woman’s eyes.

She looked down at her plate. “Of course,” she said. She speared a grape with her fork, popped it into her mouth and chewed. He felt her unhappiness from across the table. His hands clenched into fists and he slammed one of them down on the table. Dishes jumped from the table and silverware clattered against the china. “What?” he yelled. “What’s your problem, woman?”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with shock, terror. “I have no problem, darling. I swear.”

“Is it Carlos?”

She looked down at her plate and shook her head. “No, no.”

“What did he do?”

“He did nothing.

“Really, it’s not him.”

“Then what is it?”

“Please, please. Let’s forget I said anything.”

His voice dropped into little more than a whisper. When he spoke, he did so through clenched teeth. “Tell. Me. Now.”

“I just wanted some time alone. With the children,” she said. “Everywhere we go, we have guards. It just makes me self-conscious.”

“It keeps you alive, you ungrateful bitch.”

She nodded. He saw tears beginning to brim over. He considered letting it go at that. But obviously he needed to teach this little bitch a lesson. She’d either taken leave of her senses or she just didn’t appreciate all he did for her. Regardless, the woman needed to be taught a lesson.

He noticed her hand had slipped off the table and she clutched her stomach. “So you never complained before, but now you are. Now, it’s a big deal, yes? Suddenly you must complain.”

When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible. “Forgive me. I have no right to complain.”

“But here you are, feeding me this bullshit. You think this is a bad life? You think I’m giving my children, my babies, a shitty deal, right? I’m a bad Papa to my babies. Is that it?”

He turned and found one of his guards standing in the door leading from their bedroom onto the terrace. “Go get your boss. We’ll settle this bullshit once and for all.”

Rosa gave him a panicked look. “Miguel?”

He silenced her with a wave of his hand. They waited in tense silence for a couple of minutes. The security chief, dressed in khakis and a starched white shirt, sauntered through the Mendoza’s bedroom and onto the terrace. He winked at one of the guards, pointed a finger and smiled at the other one. When Carlos approached the table, he nodded politely at Rosa, but didn’t look at her too long. Rather, he turned to face Mendoza.

“You wanted something, sir?” he asked.

Mendoza leaned back in his chair. He laced his fingers together and rested the back of his head in the palms. “Carlos,” he said. “I have news.”

“News?”

“Yeah, news. I gotta let you go.”

Carlos smiled and began to shift on his feet. “Let me go? You’re firing me?”

Rosa interjected, “Miguel, no.”

His face whipped toward her. “You shut up!” he said. He underscored each word with a jab from his finger. “This is between him and me. Understand?”

“Is there a problem, boss?”

“You’ve offended my wife. Let’s just leave it at that.”

Carlos’s face tightened with anger. “Ma’am, is this true? I offended you somehow?”

Mendoza came out of his chair and punched Carlos in the stomach. The younger man staggered back, but almost immediately got his footing. He started to bring up his fists in a fighting stance, thought better of it and let them drop to his sides.

Mendoza glanced over his shoulder. He wanted to make sure the others were watching, particularly his wife, who now sat sobbing at the table. He knew they weren’t just questioning him, they were questioning his authority, his competency. They wanted to take him down. His wife, this pack of overpaid killers. They were all a bunch of damn savages. They all wanted what he had, and he needed to take them down before they took him.

He turned to the guards at his back. He nodded at Carlos. “Take him out.” The guards, both of them armed with Uzis, stared at him for a moment. “What, are you deaf? I said—”

One of the guards suddenly reached out, shoved him out of the way. He hit the ground, his outstretched hands breaking his fall. He heard autofire erupt overhead from the guards’ SMGs. Shell casings struck the ground and rolled underneath him. Somewhere in all the noise he heard his wife’s screams of terror. A moment later, the shooting had ended. He rolled over onto his rear. Carlos lay facedown on the ground, his back ravaged by bullet exit wounds. His handgun lay on the ground next to him, inches from his outstretched fingers.

Roberto Cardenas, the guard who’d shoved Mendoza to the ground, held out a hand to help him up. Mendoza slapped it away and came to his feet.

“You’re the new chief of security,” Mendoza said. “Think you can handle it?”

“Sure I do.”

“Good, clean up this mess. Then come with me. We’ve got a special delivery coming from America

“THE OLD MAN’S GONE crazy,” Cardenas whispered.

“Crazy?” Emilio Cortez replied, his confusion evident.

“Crazy, man. He just had Carlos killed for no fucking reason.”

“What the hell are you saying? Killed him why? When?”

Cardenas lightly gripped Cortez’s upper arm to steer him away from the others. He cast a last glance over his shoulder and watched as his team from Colorado unloaded Fox from the small jet they’d used to flee from the States. The big programmer’s body was limp thanks to drugs injected into him before they’d loaded him on the plane and returned to Mexico. The guys carrying Fox hauled him over to a black Mercedes, shoved him inside and shut the doors. Each took up a position next to the vehicle, apparently awaiting further orders.

Satisfied, Cortez turned his attention back to Cardenas.

“So, what happened? Why’d the old man have him taken out?”

Cardenas recounted the whole story. When he finished, Cortez slowly shook his head, feeling his stomach knot. He ran a hand over his mouth and swore. “He has lost it. And over some whore.”