Exit Strategy

The ties between Los Lictors and the Knights of Durango Cartel were strong and apparent, but the Castillos, in uncovering those ties to the Mexican federales and the armed forces, had drawn down enormous heat. Their evidence threatened a lot of powerful people south of the border.

That the tunnel was owned by the Knights of Durango was icing on Phoenix Force’s cake.

“That’s a lot of good intel,” Hawkins said. “Damned shame that Mexican judges and American Feds are afraid to take the dive into shutting down such a sewer.”

“No shame at all, brother T.J.” James spoke up. “With this pipeline still open, it gives us a walk through an unlocked back door.”

McCarter nodded. “Hey, up front, can you drop us off at Nogales?” he asked their pilots.

“Not a problem” came the response. Jack Grimaldi and Charlie Mott served as the flight crew of the Stony Man Gulfstream jet. Outfitted with top-of-the-line avionics, storage facilities that could hide an armory, and double the normal range of a standard private jet, the aircraft would have little problem stopping at one airport or another. With Grimaldi and Mott at the controls, the plane could be set down on the shortest of municipal runways if necessary. Stealth electronics would also help it land inside an enemy nation without notice if need be.

Carl Lyons agreed with the air crew’s assessment. “Currently, Deputy Perez and the kids are surrounded by a ring of armed lawmen.”

“A bigger one than the last protection team, at least,” Schwarz amended.

“As brazen as the assault on the Arizona safe house, it still was less blatant than an incident at a federal building in Yuma,” Blancanales added. “We can spare a half hour to drop you off.”

“Thanks,” McCarter returned. “It’ll save us the stress of driving and prepping for an assault across country.”

“You’re not the only one planning in the cabin, David,” Lyons said.

McCarter smirked. “How’s your work going?” he asked Schwarz.

“Well, since we have the enemy wanting to come to us, we’ll just figure out the best place to draw them in. Lines of fire, dirty tricks to even the odds, all manner of shenanigans,” Schwarz added. “Like at Gary’s place. Remember when the Russians took a run at you in Montana?”

Manning’s lips curled into a slight smile. When elements of the Russian espionage machine had grown tired of Phoenix Force’s interference in their operations, they’d launched an all-out effort to exterminate the group. Two hundred men, from the Spetsnaz and various wet-works agencies, were thrown at Phoenix. The first few skirmishes were not much, but Manning and the others had let the Russians know where to find them in the remote cabin in the Rockies.

There, Phoenix Force had sniper rifles, booby traps and explosive mines set up to turn the assault force into carrion for scavengers. The team survived, and those who’d believed in the old Soviet corruption ways had been taught a very expensive lesson.

“Knowing what battlefield you’ll be facing your enemy on goes a long way toward evening the odds,” Manning observed.

“Evening the odds?” Blancanales asked. “We want every unfair advantage in the book.”

“Truth spoken,” McCarter agreed. “Whoever said cheaters never win hasn’t studied his military history.”

“Any particular gear you bringing on this mission?” Lyons asked.

“I’m missing my old MAC-10, and Rafe loves his Heckler & Kochs, so we decided to split the difference and pack the MP-7. We’ve got suppressors and proper ammo for quiet hits as well as loud,” McCarter explained.

“Yeah, got to love the old tried-and-true T-grip style,” Schwarz added.

Lyons wrinkled his nose. “I’m barely comfortable with the .22s that come out of an M16. But 4.6 mm? That’s only .18 caliber.”

“Well, that’s the thing, Carl. Rafe and I actually know how to shoot,” McCarter answered with a wink. “Plus, everyone we’ve hit with those little .18-caliber bullets has been suitably impressed and hasn’t complained.”

Lyons chuckled.

“Since Cal and I are AR guys, we’re rolling out with these stubbies based on the DPMS PDWs,” T. J. Hawkins added. “Seven-inch heavy barrel AR-15s and a nice little name.”

James smirked. “Technically, it’s not called the Kitty Kat anymore in that configuration.”

“If our founder could have his Big Thunder, then I’m entitled to my Kitty,” Hawkins returned.

Blancanales nodded toward Manning and the weapon he was checking in its case. “Chopped-down Fabrique Nationale FAL?”

“No,” Manning answered. “I’d love to have my favorite battle rifle, but the Mexican army still issues the G-3 in 7.62 mm NATO. Kissinger made a version for me with a thirteen-inch barrel and collapsing buttstock I can fit it into a tennis racket case, yet still have 500 yards of reach for precision shooting. Cowboy made this up from a ‘clean’ Heckler & Koch, like he did with the sanitized Kitty ARs that Cal and T.J. are rocking. No chances of jamming with any of these guns.”

“Nor with the M203 compact he made for my Kitty,” James said. He affected a sneer. “Say hello to my little kitty!”

Encizo rolled his eyes. “And here I thought that world was mine.”

“What happens when you run out of ammo for David and Rafe’s BB guns?” Lyons asked.

McCarter smirked. “The Caballeros Cartel actually has been working with MP-7s or, rather, Brazilian-built copies, complete with ammunition designed for it. And since the ammo and guns are built to spec on cartel money...”

“You can scrounge reloads from the drug runners’ own security forces,” Lyons surmised.

“Bingo,” McCarter said. “That, along with the M16s and G-3s, which already use the ammo for the rest of our teams’ guns.”

“Shrewd,” Blancanales noted.

“We’ve showed you our toys for this trip. What about you?” McCarter asked.

“Well, you know Carl’s feelings on the 5.56 mm NATO that the rest of us haven’t had a problem with,” Schwarz said. “We’re not going to be trying to bust into any smuggling tunnels, or penetrating into a prison, so we can operate with our rifles having longer barrels.”

“Also, a stubby 7-incher isn’t going to put out much murder at five hundred yards like a proper rifle barrel would,” Blancanales said.

“We’re rolling with .300 Blackout rounds in our M16s. We’d have gone with .458 SOCOM, but then we’d be limited to only nine rounds in a magazine,” Lyons added. “And we also want some reach with our rifles.”

“Ever since you had that custom AK made for you on that Lebanon mission, you’ve been wanting an AK-caliber M16 for yourself,” Blancanales pointed out. “And the Blackout was designed to provide that kind of horsepower per bullet, while still being usable in an accurate rifle.”

Lyons nodded in agreement. “Going for punch and lots of punches for everyone sent at us.”

He opened his case. “And my particular Blackout has a box-fed shotgun attachment. Because sometimes you just need the kind of attitude only provided by a 12-gauge load of buckshot or slugs.”

“Doesn’t the M26 just make it too heavy?” Gary Manning asked.

Lyons laughed.

“Sorry... I forgot who I was talking with,” Manning returned. “The second strongest of the Stony Men.”

“Second, eh?” Lyons challenged.

Manning winked, knowing any rivalry or competition between members was in good fun.

“I see you’re jumping on my bandwagon, too, with the revolver,” Lyons noted, catching sight of the handle of Manning’s big Python Plus handgun.

“This hog leg?” the Canadian asked. “I’ve had an 8-shot .357 Magnum for a long time. The trouble is Cowboy can’t seem to hold on to any of his Colt Anaconda frames and clean cylinders long enough to sanitize one for my fieldwork.”

“Glad you finally have one for yourself,” Lyons said with a laugh. “Sorry for hogging them all.”

“You have two with you, right now?” Manning asked.

Lyons nodded. He pulled them both out; one from a shoulder holster, one from behind his hip. One was a big matte-stainless machine with a four-inch under-lugged barrel. The other was a stubbier snub-nosed revolver cast in a dark Parkerized finish. Both had fat cylinders, each holding eight rounds of .357 Magnums, one to be hidden more completely than the other. Though they had the polish and action similar to Lyons’s old .357 Magnum Colt Python, they were converted .44 Magnum Anacondas, cylinders altered to hold an extra two rounds in the larger design. Kissinger and Lyons dubbed it the “Python Plus.”

Manning’s, on the other hand, was a long, sleek, camouflage-gray revolver with a six-inch barrel and weights. It looked as if, somewhere in its family tree, an ancestor’d had relations with a Desert Eagle, with flat, high-tech angles and facets along the barrel’s length.

“Nice coloring on yours,” Lyons said, admiring the big gun. Naturally, the Canadian woodsman would have preferred a hunting-size revolver. All the horsepower of a Magnum bullet meant nothing if you couldn’t hit with it. “I usually don’t have problem with my four-inch revolvers, but, man, the only sucker who could miss with this puppy is the one with the bread to afford it.”

Manning chuckled. “I also like a little bit of reach with my weapons. You’re good out to a hundred, a hundred and fifty yards with yours. This, I’ve hit steel ram targets at three hundred yards.”

“Okay...that’s impressive,” Lyons admitted. He didn’t have to try out the trigger pull on the big .357. It was hand built by John “Cowboy” Kissinger, Stony Man’s armorer, an artist of steel and springs. His personal revolvers were slick and smooth, parts gliding across each other as if ice skating. They were also coated and treated against even the harshest of elements, further protecting their inner workings from hitches and imperfections that would ruin accuracy or speed of shooting.

“Just be careful out there,” Lyons said, trading Manning’s hog leg back for his pair.

The brawny Canadian nodded in return. “Careful? Or just do it as we’ve always done it? Because, pardon my linguistic torture, careful don’t do the job.”

“Yeah,” Schwarz admitted, interjecting. “We tend to err on the side of wild-ass hijinks. But this time, we’ve got the Farm under attack from an outside source. One we just can’t shoot up.”

“Well, we could, but then we’d be on the run for blowing a renegade congressman in two,” Hawkins added.

“It worked for Mack,” James offered. “On the run...convicted of a crime—they pretty much pulled—they operate in the Los Angeles underworld. If you have a prob—”

“Please. We got enough of that when the movie remake came out,” Blancanales groaned. Even so, he got a smile out of James.

“I’m not going to lie and say we don’t each have our own exit strategies.” McCarter spoke somberly. “But right now the only way out we need to concentrate on is getting Amanda Castillo back together with her children.”

“Don’t worry. We’ve never let a kid down,” Schwarz said. “And you five are pretty damn good yourselves. You’ll free her.”

“First things first,” Encizo added. “We bust down the doors of a Caballeros Cartel smuggling tunnel and get into Mexico the hard way.”

“Always with the negative vibes, Rafe,” Blancanales quipped. “To us, it’d be the fun way.”

“We’d also like to not level half of Nogales, Arizona, though,” Encizo countered.

“Don’t worry about that,” McCarter calmly assured. “We’ve got Gary. Even if we go with a nuclear option, he’ll make sure no bystanders are hurt.”

“Just Los Lictors and the Caballeros de Durango,” Manning added with emphasis.

“And in this case, since I’m better with Mexican-dialect Spanish, I’ll take the lead,” Hawkins, the Texan, said. He continued in the language he indicated, “Or don’t you think I’ll be convincing?”

“You know, Gadgets, I think we’ve been coveting the wrong member of Phoenix for Carl’s replacement on Able,” Blancanales joked.

Schwarz grinned. “We’d be golden even with a member of the Lollipop Guild if we wanted.”

Lyons scratched his head with his middle finger, extended as a beacon to his two wisecracking buddies.

“If any cartel is going to have a light, Caucasian-looking gent, no matter how well tanned, it’ll be the Durango mob,” Encizo admitted. “Especially with their ties to Accion Obrar.”

“Those bastards smell awful familiar,” Lyons said. “Like our old sparring partners. Remember Miguel Unomundo?”

“The Fascist International had a minor resurgence a while back. Remember the Ankylosaur robots?” Hawkins asked.

“Ankylosaur combat drones,” Manning corrected.

“Something tells me that with the involvement with Stewart Crowmass, the Fascist International has a brand-new title.”

“The Arrangement,” McCarter concluded.

Lyons nodded. “We thought that taking him down during the Japanese whaling crisis would have ended all of his problems, but that shrewd bastard already had a set of fail-safes in place. It’s why Hal’s got his neck on the line back in Wonderland and we’re busy pretending to be target practice for paramilitary cartel enforcers.”

“Are you certain it was merely Crowmass?” Manning inquired. “He was not alone in all of this. According to Carmen, he had allies in Central and South America and the Middle East.”

“Do you have any specific names?” Blancanales asked.

Manning quickly wrote down several notes on a page, tore it out and handed it over. “If, while you’re playing the Judas Goat, you happen to run across someone in Texas or California, you might want to bring the trouble to their very own front door.”

Blancanales looked over the sheet, face torn between a frown of concern and a mirthless grin of malice. “Him? You sure?”

“It’s only rumors at this point,” Manning stated.

Lyons took a peek at Manning’s notes and sighed. “Even when he shot a lawyer in the face, he was still a goddamn hero. No wonder this wasn’t a part of the official briefing.”

“Hal and the Sensitive Operations Group are on thin ice as it is. Going after this guy, with his hooks in the US government and overseas, it’d take a hell of a lot of brass,” Manning stated.

Lyons ejected a shell from his rifle’s under-barrel shotgun. It gleamed from base of round to the tip. “Brass? I’ve never been accused of being short of that.”

Grim silence enveloped the cabin as the two teams returned their gear to their cases.

Nothing less than full-on warfare was going to occupy their thoughts for the next several days.

CHAPTER FOUR

From his position operating a small tamale cart near the refrigerated warehouse run by the Caballeros de Durango Cartel, Pedro Guzman was easily able to keep an eye on the US side of the smuggling tunnel and any who’d dare approach it. If something strange showed up on his personal radar, he was in direct walkie-talkie contact with his brethren. So far, his tour of duty as security for the tunnel had been uneventful.

Few lawmen would ever want to take on Los Lictors, and he and his brothers in arms had dealt with Los Sigmas, the last group of hard-core paramilitary cartel muscle that had obtained control of Nogales and the border crossings into and out of Arizona. Competition and the authorities were set to rout, and anyone who still maintained an interest was left impotent, thanks to friends in high places who had handles on judges and ranking law enforcement officials.

So, when he saw the two men walking toward the Durango “icehouse,” Guzman’s instincts suddenly went into overdrive. Both wore dark sunglasses and carried the bronzed skin of those who lived in the unflinching sun on the border. He gave a tap of the send button on his communicator; a sort of heads-up that hissed inside the warehouse.

If this turned out to be trouble, he’d be on the line immediately, but so far the two didn’t appear to be hostile. Both wore oversize button-down shirts as light jackets, nothing out of the ordinary since this was technically winter in Arizona. Even so, Guzman’s gaze was locked on the smaller of the men.

He was darker than the other, but he walked with a hard authority, arms swinging, ending in fists that swayed to and fro like idling wrecking balls on a gale-force day. The tall man was younger and moved much more casually, arms and legs undulating as if he were straight out of a cartoon. Both looked like legitimate gangsters, though Guzman hadn’t seen them around here before.

They were making for the icehouse as if they were arrows aimed and fired. The little guy had purpose and a scowl bowing his lips down. He gave Guzman a glare that was hard even through opaque sunglass lenses.

“We expect any business today?” Guzman asked over his hands-free radio, speaking loud enough for only the walkie-talkie to hear him.

“Nope” came the response.

Guzman continued watching the pair. “Well, they look like they’re here on business. And like they don’t give a damn who knows they’re here.”

“Yeah, we’re watching now. Damned odd,” his partner, Zacco, replied. “But we start shooting, who knows what kind of heat we’ll call in.”

“So far, things are quiet. Maybe get them inside. You’ll have them outnumbered and outgunned, even if they are strapped,” Guzman noted.

Zacco chortled. “We kinda figured that plan out already. Just keep watch, in case they’ve got backup.”

“Keep me posted,” Guzman returned.

* * *

RAFAEL ENCIZO WAS hardly a tall man, but his shoulders were broad and powerful, his torso bulky yet tapering to a slender waist. Thanks to this build, the Cuban Phoenix veteran was able to conceal the sleek and compact Heckler & Koch MP-7 machine pistol under his jacket. As backup, the stocky, swarthy professional had his P-30 9 mm autoloader from the same manufacturer as the machine pistol.

T. J. Hawkins, on the other hand, was not blessed with shoulders or a torso that could snug a foot-long automatic weapon underneath a jacket. The best he could do was a matching pair of Beretta Brigadiers in 9 mm Parabellum. The former Ranger and Delta Force veteran had developed an appreciation for the sleek Beretta handguns in his service, despite the fact that Delta tended to operate with .45s rather than 9s. His time with Phoenix Force and Calvin James had merely reinforced his appreciation for the Italian design, now entering its fourth decade of service with the US Armed Forces.

The Beretta he wore in his shoulder holster had a stubby suppressor and a rail-mounted gun light, both accessories taking the already negligent recoil of the sleek pistol and turning it into nothing short of a laser beam in his hands. Hawkins’s other Brigadier was clean, meant to operate as a backup should the first somehow jam or get lost in the fury of conflict.

Behind the two of them, McCarter, Manning and James followed as stealthy ghosts shadowing and guarding them. At this moment McCarter was a whisper in their earbuds.

“Tamale cart. He’s noticed you and is giving you the hairy eyeball,” the Briton warned.

“We made him immediately,” Encizo murmured into the hands-free microphone at his collar. “Any response from the icehouse?”

“Negative,” Manning informed them. “The windows are covered, but my infrared has picked up bodies behind the glass. Normal movement for now.”

“Awesome,” Hawkins returned. “That means they’re still paranoid.”

“It’s only paranoia if no one’s out to get them,” Encizo stated. “And since we are out to get ’em...”

The corner of Hawkins’s mouth turned up in a smirk. “Cartel goons didn’t get to be rich by hiring lazy or inattentive soldiers. This’ll be a bit tricky.”

“Well, you’re the one taking the lead. Granted, I can’t hide much of myself behind your skinny Texas ass, but I’ll still be alive long enough to say ‘I told you so,’” Encizo replied.

“How about you use that time to shoot back?” Hawkins asked.

“That’s a good idea. For a moment I thought I was a cable news pundit,” Encizo grunted.

“Preferring to being ‘proven’ right than to actually solving the damn problem?” Hawkins said.

“Exactly,” Encizo returned. “Don’t worry, my foolishness has swiftly passed.”

Manning interrupted the two. “We’ve got two in the window, looking down on you. Both have big dark voids where their hands should be.”

“Gunmen,” Encizo extrapolated.

Hawkins cut in. “They aiming at us?”

“No, they just look curious about why two guys are walking up to their warehouse. Weapons are at low ‘not quite ready,’” Manning answered.

“Thank goodness for some laziness in this crowd,” Hawkins said.

McCarter’s gruff voice broke in on the hands-free communicators. “Maybe they just feel like they can handle you. Overconfidence, especially since they’ve likely got rifles and such inside the warehouse.”

“We can work with overconfidence, esse,” Hawkins returned, settling verbally into his role and flow. His walk already was smoother, rolling, his head bobbing to an internal beat. It could have been seen as a stereotype, but the truth was that he’d seen far too many boys from the barrio who affected the gait and rhythm he copied. Just because it was a cultural cliché did not mean that it wasn’t real.

Encizo, on the other hand, stomped along, shoulders swiveling, fists rocking back and forth. Not tall, his strut would take up an entire sidewalk, if only by force of his demeanor, not counting his wide shoulders and brawny arms. This was the confidence and weight of a veteran of the streets. No gang member or cartel representative could look at him and not think that he’d been representing la raza out on the front lines. Even without seeing the scar tissue he’d incurred over the years on Phoenix Force, observers would see a longtime warrior. That, plus his mode of dress and his demeanor, made him not merely an enforcer, but the enforcer.

The two of them were indeed strapped to the teeth. Encizo had his two HK pistols, plus his favorite Walther PPK in its ankle holster, and a pair of Tanto-styled fighting knives, one in a sheath hidden on the calf opposite his Walther, the other hanging from a leather thong around his neck. Hawkins had additional weaponry, too, including a push knife inside his gaudy-looking belt buckle, and a snub-nosed .357 Magnum—a tiny five-shot in comparison to Manning’s and Lyons’s handguns. The trouble for the cartel’s watchman and the other observers was that they had no idea that these two were ready for all-out war, or that the other three members of Phoenix Force were poised and ready to give them a hail of blazing cover fire on a moment’s notice.

The two of them also had extra surprises to grant them an advantage. Their electronic ear buds, low-profile and hard to notice without a high-powered telescopic lens, provided not only communications with their allies, but also hearing protection, electronically filtering out ear-damaging booms the likes of indoor handgun fire, or even better, flash-bang grens, which the two of them were also equipped with.

Curiosity would be the bait for the cartel gun thugs to allow them into the icehouse. Security and thorough procedure would make them shut the sound-proofed doors before they even considered firing the first shot to eliminate the two intruders. And in the moments between, Encizo’s plan was to buy them precious extra minutes and the element of surprise by popping off a distraction device at 140 decibels and blazing bright. That was what the sunglasses were for, given the flash-bangs went off at an intensity of 600 thousand lumens, more than enough to leave an opponent seeing stars and blotches of afterglow for a long time.

It wasn’t a sure thing; nothing ever was. But anything that gave them at least one second’s worth of surprise was worth another second of life in the middle of a firefight. Each extra second alive was one where they could find another opportunity, another means of cheating death. Those instances were supported by Encizo and Hawkins wearing undershirt body armor, advance intel based on ground-facing satellite radar and infrared, and Gary Manning’s sniper-rifle-mounted thermal vision, which could peer though even the tinted windows of the icehouse to see gunmen looking down upon them.