One Down: Citizen Warrior Series - Book 2, page 20
Backing away from the top of the stairs he made his way to his parents’ door and opened it. Looking in he could see that both his parents were asleep.
“Dad, dad, wake up. Dad,” Eric said in a whisper loud enough to wake his father.
“What’s going on son?”
“Shh......I think the door is open downstairs and Jasper is growling. Grab your rifle.”
Before Eric finished with his sentence Harold was out of bed moving towards him with his Marine issued M1 Garand.
“What are you two doing? Son, you think someone’s in the house?” Agnes asked in a loud whisper while easing herself out of bed and grabbing her walker next to the nightstand. Leaning against it was her Ruger 10-22. The same one she’d shot and killed two cartel members with last year. Resting it across the handles of the walker she turned and shuffled her way to Harold and Eric who were now outside the bedroom door.
“Dad, go back inside and look outside and see if you can see anything.” Eric said not taking his eyes off the staircase.
“Son, get Jasper out of the bedroom. Make sure you hold on to him. Maybe we didn’t latch one of the doors and the wind blew it open. You don’t want him getting loose and running off into the desert.” Harold said.
“I’m not worried about him running off. He’s never done that.”
Stepping backwards Eric reached behind him with his left-hand side stepping to his room, eased the door open, and put his hand in grabbing Jasper’s collar. He could feel the warm and wet breath of the animal breathing and feel the vibration of his continued low growl and his body straining to lurch forward. He wished he had a leash to put him on. For now he‘d have to manage holding him with his left hand and the AR-15 shouldered in his right.
As he turned in the direction of his mother standing just outside of the doorway, the sound of someone bumping into a piece of furniture downstairs alerted them. At that instant, Jasper leaped forward throwing Eric to the floor hard, landing on his left side with his rifle pointing up. He watched Jasper race down the stairs. Seconds later the sound of bone snapping and a man screaming made its way to him as Jasper tore into someone down below. Multiple gunshots and the yelp of his dog followed it. Eric went prone and bellied his way to the top of the staircase. From behind him in the bedroom he heard the report of his father’s M1 followed by four more shots in rapid succession. Looking down the stairs he saw two figures starting their way up towards him. With three quick shots he sent one tumbling backwards, and the other retreated out of sight.
“I got one or two of those sons of bitches outside,” Harold yelled. Momentarily it was quiet and then the sounds of multiple rounds impacting the ceiling above Harold’s firing position. Harold pulled back making his way to the night stand. He learned from many firefights in Korea to never stay in one spot after the shooting begins. At the night stand, he pulled out two Korean War vintage grenades.
Eric guarding the staircase turned hearing his father come up behind him. His father’s leathered left hand reached out to him handing him a grenade. He’d never noticed his father’s hands and how big they were. In this surrealistic moment in the dark, he did. For a moment the sight of his father bending over him mesmerized Eric. In his right hand, Harold held his M1 Garand and in the other a grenade. He had a fleeting thought of as a young boy with his dad bending over him to hand him a piece of chocolate. Where the hell did he get grenades?
“Eric, take it and the other one. Eric.”
“Ok Dad,” Eric said coming back to the present.
“Son, if you need to, squeeze the spoon here and pull the pin. As soon as you release the spoon from your grip, throw it downstairs. Back away from the staircase and keep your head down. Do it quickly though, you only have four to five seconds before it goes off. Make em count,” Harold said handing the grenades to his son.
From behind, Eric heard and felt the wheels of his mother’s walker rolling on the hard wood floor to his left. Looking over he could see her and the Ruger 10-22 rifle resting across the handle bars. He watched her make her way to the end of the short hallway and turn facing him with her right hand on the rifle.
Both his mother and father had always been gentle souls. But if came to protecting their family, home, or country he knew they wouldn’t hesitate to go down without a fight. He wouldn’t either. His eyes welled up and tears rolled down his cheek thinking of the love and pride for his parents, wife and children.
“I love you mom!”
“I love you too son!”
Outside
“What’s going on inside?” Captain Sanchez said to the man on his right just as the man’s back exploded with a mist in the dark followed by a flash and a thunderous explosion of a large caliber rifle fired from the second floor of the house. Turning to his left, he was hit in the face and right arm by rocks and dirt of another shot being fired from above. Only this time the clarity of the muzzle flash was unmistakable. Tapping the man on his left the two of them retreated to large mesquite tree twenty feet behind them with two more rounds hitting around them.
“Fire into the second-story window where the flashes are coming from. I will get to the front door and find out what’s happening. This is bullshit, an old man and woman are keeping us pinned down,” the captain said getting up and running for the front steps leading up to the front porch and door. Behind him he could hear the corporal firing three-round bursts.
12:54 A.M.
Voices
Turning his attention back to the bottom of the stair case Eric heard the rushed and heavy steps of someone coming through the front door. He heard muffled voices in Spanish. A surge of anger and determination came over him. Eat shit and die mother fuckers! He pulled the pin on the first grenade, released the spoon and lobbed it downstairs.
“Not on my watch, you fucking assholes,” he hollered in Spanish as he threw it.
From below the sound of it hitting the floor and bouncing across it made its way up to him. He backed away from the landing to the sound of an explosion and loud flash followed by the screaming of men down below.
Living Room
In the living room, the captain had gathered six of his men for an assault to the second floor when he saw the flash and felt the concussion of the grenade. One of two of his men screamed. Two of his men were dead and two badly injured.
“Sargent Mendez, you and Private Uribe, go outside and throw a couple of grenades through the upstairs windows. I want those people dead! Do it now!” The captain said pointing in the direction of the front door.
Captain Sanchez was angry. Not so much about his men getting injured......men could be replaced. This was always a possibility in a gun fight. He was angry with Juan’s orders. Here he and his men at midnight were in a gun fight with an old man and an old woman. For what?
Time and time again Juan misjudged the determination and courage of the citizens of the United States. The captain knew local and federal law enforcement weren’t much of a problem. There’d been several times when he and his men crossed the border only to have law enforcement on the U.S. side turn and retreat from them. American citizens were different. Many of them were fearless and willing to put their lives on the line. People like that are dangerous and such was the case with these two seniors. He found it hard to believe just an old man and an old woman could put up such a fight. Could there be another person up there?
1:01 A.M.
Harold retrieving three loaded clips from his night stand turned and made his way to the left bedroom window. Half way there he heard breaking glass and the thud of something hitting the bedroom floor sliding to a stop on the other side of the bed. A sound he was familiar with from long ago. He turned with his back in the noise’s direction only to feel the hot shrapnel tearing into his lower legs and back throwing him forward onto the floor. In a daze with ears ringing he knew he’d been hit and hit bad. The only thing he could think of was to make his way to Eric and Agnes. Dragging his rifle, he crawled through the bedroom doorway and onto the top of the stair landing.
“Move over son,” Harold said in a quick and rasping voice.
“Dad, you’re hit.” Eric said feeling his father’s wet, warm and oily feeling pajama tops and bottom. He’d heard the explosion in their bedroom and another one from inside his old room.
“I know. Isn’t the first time. You ok honey?” Harold said raising his head up looking in the direction of Agnes who had her back to the wall at the end of the hallway.
“God help us!” She said.
“Where’s that other grenade, son?”
Eric reached to his left, gripping the small pineapple-shaped implement of destruction.
“It’s right here Dad. Dad,” Eric said gently shaking his father’s left side and getting no response.
He looked towards his mother down the hallway and pulled the pin holding the spoon down. He’d wait until they were close. Fuck you, come and get it! He pictured the shrapnel of the grenade tearing into the ones down below.
1:03 A.M.
The two men who the captain sent outside to throw grenades through the upstairs windows came running back through the front door joining him and the four other men. They gathered to the left of the staircase.
“I want all of you to get up those stairs and kill who’s ever is up there. I want overwhelming covering fire going up there,” he said to his men.
As they approached the sound of another grenade from above landed on the floor. This time they were ready and ran behind the wall separating the living room from the entry way by the stairs. As soon as it detonated Captain Sanchez launched his attack.
“Go, go, go, muy rapido,” he yelled.
Assault
With the grenade in his right hand holding the spoon down Eric eased himself to the edge of the landing. Hearing muffled voices below and to the left, he threw the grenade to his left through an opening in the banister and backed away from the edge. Again, there was an explosion from below. He wasn’t sure if he’d gotten anybody with it or not. With his rifle in hand he crawled back to the edge to look down. The first man was bounding up the steps. With three quick shots he dispatched him only to be met with a hail of lead coming from below. He fired two more times. A round to the forehead silenced him.
Agnes watched her son fight only to succumb to a hail of bullets and the sounds of heavy footsteps running up the stairs. Sitting on the fold out seat on the walker she steadied her elbows on the hand grip bar looking down the sights of the small caliber rifle. More rounds ripped into Eric’s body and the first of the men’s head appeared. Hidden in the darkened hallway she aimed at the head and squeezed the trigger. His momentum took him up to the landing where he stumbled over Eric’s twitching body falling face first on the landing. Another man appeared behind him. She fired twice hitting him on his right side as he turned putting a three-round burst into her. The force of the rounds caught her in the right shoulder knocking her back against the wall. She fired one more round striking the man just below the nose before the third man appeared and finished her.
The four remaining men went into the two bedrooms and baths.
“Captain, all clear up here. We’ve got two men down,” The corporal said.
“How many were up there?” The captain asked.
“Three, an old man and a woman and a younger man. Maybe their son?”
“Bring our men down. Which one killed them?”
“The old woman.”
Again, the captain thought about what they’d just done. Four of his men were dead along with an American rancher, his wife, their son and a dog. And for what? So, in Juan’s sick and twisted mind he can somehow teach the Americans a lesson and scare them. Americans don’t run......at least these three didn’t.
Stepping outside he lit a cigarette taking a long draw on it. He watched the trucks he’d sent three of his men to retrieve come to a halt in the driveway. One by one his remaining men carried the four dead men out putting them into the beds of two of the pickups. The injured two with help made their way to the truck.
In the desert’s chill night a lone coyote howled in the distance. Captain Sanchez had studied American history. He knew the three dead Americans upstairs were no different from their ancestors who fought in the Revolutionary War, World War One, World War Two, Korea, Viet Nam, Afghanistan, Iraq. The list was too exhausting to remember all the acts of valor by Americans, both military and civilians. Without Americans there’d be no people of color or Jews and Muslims. Hell, there’d be no Mexicans, there’d only be people speaking German. What had they done? He took another deep drag on his cigarette. Sadness came over him. He thought about the loss of his men, good men and the three people upstairs.
“Sargent, take two men and torch the place,” the captain said as his thoughts drifted back to Juan Ortiz.
One day I will kill that rabid son of a bitch.
The Sea of Cortez
Seventy-Seven Miles Southwest of Guaymas, Mexico 3:34 A.M.
Thirty-eight miles offshore in the darkness of a crescent moon the captain of the one hundred and twenty-seven-foot fishing trawler, Luna Sea, negotiated the three-foot swells. He circled the forty-one-foot, cigarette style boat. As arranged, he did three circles around it, then pulled up alongside after receiving a coded light signal. He glanced at the radar screen for the twenty-third time in the last thirty-five minutes confirming there were no other vessels within a ten-mile radius.
The captain of the trawler stepped outside the cabin, lit a cigarette, and looked down. Both crews positioned protective boat bumpers on the sides and tied off lines between the two vessels. He wondered what it would be like to be at the helm of the thirty-one hundred horse powered cigarette boat cutting through the seas at full throttle.
“Buenos noches Captain, we won’t be long,” the captain of the sleek boat yelled up to him snapping him back to the reality of the situation. It would take about thirty minutes to offload the illicit cargo onto his boat. It was during this period he knew they were most vulnerable to interdiction.
He watched the plastic wrapped stacks of sixty-six-pound bundles being hoisted aboard and then moved down into the forward fish hold. Towards the end of the transfer, he watched the special cargo came aboard: Ten wooden crates with blacked out markings on them.
The captain knew better than to open them to see what was inside. He didn’t want to know. All he knew was that everything was to be off-loaded in Guaymas, and he was getting a bonus for his effort. As in the past, he assumed it was destined for Juan Ortiz and the Magdalena Cartel. The only thing he cared about was getting paid.
Wednesday 7:30 A.M.
F.B.I. Field Office, Tucson
Rebecca got into the office early hoping to catch her supervisor to discover if there was word from Washington on her request to investigate the congressman and the mosque. While waiting for him to arrive, she was putting on the final touches on an embezzlement case when Ben Nottingham walked into her office. She stopped what she was doing and looked up from her desk at him.
“There was an incident last night west of Douglas on the X7 ranch,” Nottingham said.
“That’s the Grimm ranch, Trevor, and I talked to them about the goings on across the border from them in San Miguel, Mexico. What do you mean there was an incident? What happened?”
“Cochise County sheriff reports they got a call last night from County Fire who responded to a report of a fire at the ranch about one-thirty in the morning. By the time they arrived the ranch house was engulfed in flames. After putting it out they found three bodies on the second floor. Two men and a woman.”
“That’s terrible. I assume it was the Grimm’s?” Rebecca asked.
“Too early to tell but I think it’s safe to say it was.”
“They were such a nice old couple. Why did we get a call?”
“The three bodies all had bullet holes in them and one, appeared to have shrapnel in it. They found all three with rifles next to them and lots of spent shell casings. There were also shell casings found on the first floor around the staircase. Five-five six, twenty-two and thirty-ought-six shell casings is what they found on the second floor. The lower level had just five-five six casings on it. One bedroom looked like there’d been an explosion in it. So, did the area around the bottom of the staircase. It looks like the Grimms got into one hell of a gun fight with someone. Sheriff and Fire thinks whoever it was torched the place after killing them. They have a son who lives in New Mexico. It’s possible the third body could be him. Oh, and they also found a dog’s body downstairs with six bullet holes in it. The dog had dark blue fabric in its mouth. They’ve leaving the bodies where they found them waiting for us to get down there.”
“Mexican Federal Police wear dark blue uniforms,” Rebecca said.
“Maybe but we don’t know for sure; that’s why we’re involved. I want you to get down there and take a look. I’ve got a forensic team in route. Oh and take Agent Granada with you. It wouldn’t hurt for her to see a little blood and guts.”
Taking the young agent with her after what she’d discovered about Sylvia’s uncle wasn’t something Rebecca was enthusiastic about. Tears welled up in Rebecca’s eyes. It surprised her to feel sadness arise upon hearing the news of the Grimm’s death and how they went out. She liked the Grimms; they were salt of the earth people. Maybe it was because Harold Grimm reminded her so much of her father.
If it was the Mexican military or Federal Police why would they go after the Grimms?
“Ok, as soon as she shows up we’ll head down there. So......what did they say about my information on Hector Granada? You know Congressman Granada, Stinger missiles and the mosque?”
