Yeager's Mission, page 8
He used the flat-blade screwdriver as a punch, knocking out a ragged two-by-two-inch piece of aluminum. Start to finish, it took him twelve minutes to cut out the square. Once he had his makeshift patch cut free, he spent another four minutes hammering the edges flat.
Riley came back from ditching the bodies, and Yeager had him hold the flashlight while he crawled into position and worked at wrapping the small piece of tin across the top of the radiator, ensuring that it would completely cover the gash.
“What’d you do with the bodies?” Yeager asked.
“Ditched the car. Two blocks away, behind a vacant building.”
“You wipe it down?”
Riley gave him a look.
“Sorry,” Yeager said. “Just checking.”
Too much liquid near the joint would keep the metal too cool to bond, so he had to drain more coolant from the radiator stopcock. Eighteen minutes were wasted looking for a pan to catch the runoff.
“Just use water,” Riley said.
“Could do, but I’d rather have coolant.”
In the medical supplies, Rudy turned up a bedpan, which worked better than expected.
A battered white Chevy step van with Mexican license plates and a primer-gray driver’s door pulled in front the warehouse gate at 22:54. The van’s headlights switched off. Elapsed time since the gunmen had run off: forty-six minutes. Victor went to the driver’s side and spoke for a second, then the van pulled in the rest of the way, parking on the far side of the Suburban.
“Getting to be a traffic jam in here,” Yeager said to Riley. The thin Texan nodded and spat a stream of tobacco juice. He had taken possession of the F2000 and held it at the ready, loosely pointed toward the newcomer. The Star Wars-looking weapon jarred with Riley’s cowboy hat and boots.
“Rudy,” Yeager said, “por favor, would you keep an eye at the gate? I hate getting snuck up on.”
The foreman nodded and moved away.
A man dressed in biker gear popped out of the van and gave Victor a backslapping bear hug. “How’re doing, ya crazy Messican fuck?” The gun dealer’s voice bounced off the walls of the warehouse lot, too big to be contained in such a small space.
Victor winced. “Ssshhh! Dude, come on. We just, like, committed major felonies here. Can you turn it down a notch?” Standing beside the man, Victor looked like a baby bear next to a fully grown North American beer-belly grizzly.
“Yeager,” Victor said. “This is John Wayne Smith. Smith, Yeager.”
Yeager took a giant paw in one hand and felt the big man hold back from crushing his bones to powder. J. W. Smith would have to duck and turn sideways to get through a door. He wore a bandana over his hair, had a scruffy beard—more white than brown—a leather jacket over a Grateful Dead T-shirt, and saggy jeans that were old when Carter was president. The leather jacket had patches covering every surface and cause, from POW-MIA to the US flag to Harley-Davidson motorcycle logos.
“Hoo-wee,” Smith said, dialing his voice down to a more normal level. “It sure weren’t easy findin’ you ol’ boys out here. Call me Smitty. Everybody calls me Smitty.”
After the rest of the introductions, Smitty threw open the double doors in the back of his van. Inside the cargo space, six containers, labeled “Medical Waste” in Spanish, lay stacked in two rows. Smitty pulled one loose and set it on the ground near the rear bumper.
“Now, Vic here didn’t spefically say what y’all wanted,” Smitty said, mangling specifically. Yeager couldn’t decide if he spoke more like Foghorn Leghorn or Yosemite Sam. “So I brung ever’thing I could think of.”
Opening the clasps, Smitty threw back the lid. “This ratchere is a Ruger SR-556 rifle with a Slide Fire grip. If y’all don’t know what a Slide Fire does, it allows you to simulate burst and full au-toe. These are completely A-T-and-fucking-F legal. ’Cept here in Messico, of course, where ever’thing in mah truck is illegal.”
Rudy whistled from the gate. Yeager looked up in time to see a Silverado pickup wheel into the driveway and stop. The driver cut the engine and climbed out, exchanging volleys of Spanish with the foreman. The passenger door opened, and a white-haired figure stepped out.
“Damn,” Yeager said to Victor in a low voice. “De la Cueva’s here. He’s probably pissed about his men gettin’ killed.” He looked at the big gun dealer. “Sorry, Smitty, I don’t have time for the sales pitch. Vic’s in charge of armaments; he’ll decide what we need. I have to go patch a radiator before the cartel shows up with reinforcements.”
“Reinforcements?” said Smitty. “Reinforcements for what?”
Nurse Marta Beltran joined Alexandra in the hallway outside Emelita’s room. She slipped a small tube of blood into her light-blue medical scrubs and gave the doctor a shake of her head. The nurse’s expression—more sour than normal—snuffed out Alexandra’s tiny spark of hope.
“I agree, Doctor. I think it is appendicitis.”
Barrel shaped and battle hardened, Marta had been a nurse for more years than Alexandra had been alive. If there were a trauma, disease, or condition she hadn’t seen, then the book on it had yet to be written. Alexandra would look at the blood sample under a microscope anyway and see if she could determine if the girl had an elevated white-blood count, but if Marta said appendicitis, that was as good as a lab confirmation.
“Please prepare the slides for me, Marta. I’ll look at them later. Can you keep an eye on Emelita as well as the other patients?”
“Of course.” The big nurse huffed and waddled away.
Since their evacuation to the mission, the two nurses had divided the day into twelve-hour shifts. Marta took nights, and Estella had the day shift. Estella was a sweet girl with a sunny disposition, but Alexandra would rather have Marta next to her—sour expression, battle-ax temper and all—in a medical emergency.
She sighed and rubbed her eyes. Now, where can I find an operating room?
Chapter 12
Yeager set up the torch and the supplies he needed in the cramped space between the hood and the radiator. While he worked, de la Cueva ordered the loading of Dino and Miguel into the Silverado. Yeager climbed out as they settled the last body in the bed of the pickup.
“I’m sorry.” Yeager shook de la Cueva’s extended hand. “They were caught in the open and didn’t stand a chance.”
“I understand,” the older man said. “It is hard, this land. I have known Dino since he was born. This will break his mother’s heart.”
Yeager escorted the rancher to the passenger side of the pickup, where he paused.
“Señor Yeager, these cartels…” De la Cueva put a hand on Yeager’s shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. His voice turned hard and feral. “These cunts! They are a plague and pestilence on my homeland. If you have any trouble from them, please señor, please call me, and you will find a ready ally.”
“Good to know, sir. I appreciate it very much.”
“Bueno.” De la Cueva got in the truck and closed the door. The driver backed out of the lot and drove away, moving at a funereal speed.
Yeager went to work. The time was 23:03.
Yeager dropped a wet shop towel on the fresh weld, flinching back from the hissing steam that erupted. The actual soldering of the patch had gone better than he had any right to expect. The torch supplies came with sandpaper and flux paste, which made cleaning the weld area a simple task. Once he got the metal hot enough, the soldering rod melted and sucked into the joint just as it was supposed to with only a small amount of globbing up.
Yeager gingerly lifted the towel off with the tip of a screwdriver and inspected the joint.
“How’s it look?” Victor asked.
“No holes, no cracks. Looks like the patch took.” Yeager glanced at his watch. Half an hour till midnight. “Now the question is: will it hold under pressure?”
Riley handed him the bedpan full of coolant, and Yeager splashed it into the radiator then followed that with water from a plastic Coke bottle. He replaced the cap and tightened it. Handing Riley the tools, Yeager clambered out from the rabbit hole he’d squeezed into between the tilted-forward hood and the radiator.
His lower back screamed at him for being twisted into an awkward position for so long. Yeager stretched and twisted, trying to loosen up. Riley, Victor, and Smitty gathered around him in a semicircle without speaking. Rudy kept watch at the gate.
“We need to get moving,” Yeager said. “I feel like ants are crawling up my spine, waiting for those cartel boys to come back. Victor, you and Riley take that beat-up Toyota. You have the GPS and a map, so you run point about a mile ahead of me. If you hit a roadblock, give me a sitrep on the radio. Keep your weapons out of sight, and do your dumb-Mexican routine.”
“Sí, señor.” Victor struck a gangbanger pose. “Obey-Juan says: nothin’ here to see. These ain’t the badasses chu lookin’ for.”
“Right. You get all the ordnance loaded?”
“Back of the truck.”
“We should know within a few miles whether or not the radiator will hold, but one way or another, I plan to be as far from here as I can get. Smitty? What’s up with you? I figured you to be gone by now.”
“I’m all done. Just fixin’ to leave. Good luck heppin’ them kids and all.”
“Thanks. Okay, let’s—”
The roar of engines and the squeal of brakes shot a bolt of blue lightning through Yeager’s heart. Rudy whistled, but it was unnecessary. The foreman crouched by the gate and jabbed a finger outside. His eyes glowed white in the darkness.
Rudy hissed, “They’re coming!”
A snap from the fireplace jerked Charlie Buchanan from her light doze. For a moment, she struggled to separate her dream—a jumble of random images that dissipated into mist—from the reality of her own living room. Rascal lifted his head from the rug and regarded her for a moment then lay back down. A single lamp by her chair, and the dying embers of the fire, provided the only light in the room. The book she had been reading lay tented on her stomach.
The grandfather clock near the front door chimed its little song, and Charlie counted twelve dings. Midnight.
She shivered even though the room was warm enough. A Blue Norther had dropped temperatures to nearly freezing, but the house was well built and snug. So tight, in fact, she had to leave an upstairs window cracked so the fireplace would draw properly.
Yeager. Damn, I wish you were here.
The house seemed too big without him, as if his presence would take up the extra space. A pair of his work gloves rested on the coffee table, and under them lay a gun magazine, its cover ringed with impressions from a mug. The last remodeling project in the downstairs bathroom remained suspended—tools waiting, concrete floor bare, and walls half-covered with flower-print paper.
A strong gust of wind buffeted the house, and something rattled against the downstairs window, pulling Charlie from her moody reverie. She closed her book with a snap and set about getting the house ready for bed. She banked the fire, checked the door locks, set the alarm, and rinsed out the coffeepot.
Charlie couldn’t remember a time she’d felt this blue over being alone. She had been alone seven years before she met Abel Yeager and, aside from grief over the divorce from her first husband, had handled the solitude without dipping into melancholy. At first, raising David had kept her busy. Then, as he had grown older, her son had become all the company she had needed. She never felt lonely when her son was around.
But now, for some reason, her mood had plummeted with the temperature. Maybe I need some retail therapy. A trip to town would do us both good.
The more she thought about it, the more the idea appealed. Tomorrow was Friday, so David would have the weekend off school as soon as he got home. She could pack them a couple of overnight bags and head for Austin. David could stay with Maria and Tomas, who would spoil him rotten. Charlie could maybe snag a room at one of the downtown hotels. One with a damn big spa. And, best of all, she could get some Christmas shopping done before the post-Thanksgiving rush.
Perfect. Already happier, she bounced up the stairs to get ready for bed, wondering what to get Abel for Christmas.
“Rudy, get back from there.” Yeager snagged his M4 from where it leaned against the Mack’s front wheel and raced for the gate. While Yeager had been welding, Riley and Victor had pulled the first cartel group’s Kia sedan inside the compound. They had maneuvered it across the opening to form a more protective barrier than the flimsy gate. Since a rifle bullet would punch right through the thin sides of an automobile, they had carried dozens of cinderblocks from the construction site next-door and stuffed them in the trunk and interior of the car. The Kia squatted on its springs, heavily overloaded.
The wooden slats in the fence were less than a half-inch thick and would barely stop a spit wad. The car and cinderblocks offered some solid metal and concrete as a barricade.
Yeager took up position by the trunk while Riley and Victor deployed to his left, bracing their weapons over the car’s hood. Rudy faded back through a small gap between the car and the fence, circled around behind Yeager, and disappeared. The man was a ranch foreman, not a soldier, and Yeager had ordered him to get back to the warehouse if trouble broke out.
“Holy overkill, Batman,” Victor yelled.
Smitty didn’t join them, and Yeager had no time to look for him. Three SUVs were parked in a haphazard tangle across the street. The warehouse opposite de la Cueva’s place had no surrounding fence, leaving nothing but thirty yards of open parking lot between their Kia and the cartel’s vehicles.
A dozen-plus men bristling with tactical weapons boiled from the SUVs. The first wave lobbed random, unaimed fire as they scrambled for cover behind their cars. Yeager would be shredded by incoming fire if he tried to pull the truck through the gate, make a turn, and head west.
The good news: thirty yards was a picnic for a trained marksman. Yeager targeted the first gunman he found over his front sight and dropped him with a three-round burst. From there, it was shift-aim-fire, repeat, until the bolt locked back.
“Reloading!” He dropped behind the Kia’s fender to swap magazines.
The cartel people had gotten warmed up. The incoming rounds spattered and thunked the Kia in a deadly hailstorm. The clatter of automatic weapons on full rock ’n’ roll blended into a furious, monstrous barrage of sound as physical as the dozens of chunks of lead impacting Yeager’s shelter every second. Glass shattered and spewed from the Kia’s windows. The car settled toward the gate side as its tires blew out. Yeager sent up a quick prayer that a freak shot wouldn’t hit the gas tank.
“This ain’t good, Por Que.” Yeager had to yell it twice. Victor and Riley had ducked for cover as well. “All they have to do is keep us pinned, then charge.”
“Goddamn right!” Victor poked his AK-47 over the hood and fired a burst without looking. “We need a fucking plan, dude!”
The deluge of fire diminished. The attacking fighters had to change magazines, several at the same time. Yeager crawled to his right, by the back bumper of the Kia. He risked a quick peek. The cartel men appeared content to stay behind their vehicles and hose the Kia with enough lead to sink it through the earth.
One of the shooters ventured out from the protection of the middle SUV. He held something in his hand, cocked back to throw.
“Grenade!” Yeager snapped the M4 to his shoulder. He ripped off a quick burst, aiming by feel.
The man staggered and threw the grenade in a wobbly arc before collapsing. Yeager ducked and curled up. The whump of the explosion slapped him with the force of a mule kick. The concussion stung more than stunned, like an open-hand slap over his whole body.
“How many?” Victor called out. He fired without looking again. Riley stayed quiet, sitting with his back against the car. He spat between his knees, looking as calm as if he were waiting on a bus.
“Started with twelve or fifteen at most,” Yeager said. “I count three down for good; another one or two I know are clipped.”
The heavy thump of an enormous gun sounded from behind them. Yeager whipped around to follow the sound, and his eyes widened. “What the hell?”
“Yeah, go Smitty!” Victor screamed.
Smitty had not only climbed onto the peaked roof of the warehouse, but he’d also set up a Barrett .50-caliber rifle. The big man’s booming laugh sounded over the next percussive beat of the Barrett. A deadly piece of machinery, the Barrett could rip through the flimsy protection of the bandits’ vehicles like an ice pick through a beer can.
Yeager glanced around the back of the Kia again. The gunmen were in disarray, stunned and caught off guard by the heavy gun. One tried to take aim and fire back at their rooftop tormentor only to have his head taken off by a high-velocity .50-caliber round.
Four of the cartel men ran away, zigzagging across the parking lot. Another group remained, cowering behind the illusion of protection provided by their vehicles.
Yeager levered himself up. “I’m going to the right! Catch ’em in the flank.” Smitty’s laugh boomed out, and Yeager glanced up. He was stunned speechless for the second time that night. “Where the hell’d he get that?”
Smitty straddled the centerline of the roof. On his shoulder rested a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. One conical round was seated and ready to fire. The bearlike man lined up the simple sights and triggered the weapon.
Yeager dropped.
