at the corners of the prefab building, Bolan crouched and took a quick look around the corner.
Two guards kicked a soccer ball back and forth. Their rifles, AR-15s from the look of them, were slung casually across their bodies.
Hopefully, these guys were into their game, Bolan thought. The prospect of facing automatic-rifle fire made the situation a bit more problematic.
At least the watchtower on this side appeared empty. Bolan sent two men to verify. After checking the location of the soccer-playing guards, the two marines raced across the expanse to the bottom of the guard tower. One man climbed its ladder as the other one covered him. Moments later, the one at the top signaled that it was clear.
Mistake number one for the bad guys, Bolan thought. He relayed the information to Martinez.
“Looks like the van’s heading away from the airstrip and back toward the main gate,” Grimaldi said over the radio.
Bolan acknowledged and relayed that information to Martinez, as well. The original plan called for covert infiltration and possibly taking prisoners for interrogation, but Bolan wasn’t hopeful on that count. They were going into the belly of the beast. Resistance and gunplay were almost always a given. These weren’t the kind of men who surrendered without a fight. If they did, they’d surely face the wrath of the cartel bosses afterward.
“The tower on this side looks deserted,” Martinez said.
That seemed exceptionally lax, which was great news for the marines, if their good fortune was to be believed.
“I am sending two men to check the front tower and secure the corner,” Martinez whispered over the radio.
“Roger,” Bolan answered.
With the watchtower positions neutralized, and two men positioned at the front of the building, the rest of the raid should go like clockwork, Bolan thought. He tested the fit of the sound suppressor on his MP-5 and got ready to round the corner and take out the two sentries on his side.
Grimaldi’s voice was a whisper in Bolan’s ear mic. “The van’s coming in the gate. The overhead door’s going up in front.”
The Executioner informed Martinez.
Almost time, Bolan thought. Let them start to disembark from the vehicle and then we can hit them hard.
“The van’s inside,” Grimaldi’s voice said over the radio. “The big door’s closing.”
Bolan keyed his mic. “Is everybody in position?” After hearing the affirmative clicks, he said, “Get ready to move.”
The soccer ball suddenly bounced past him, and the labored breathing of a man running became audible.
As the guard ran past, chasing the errant ball, Bolan reached out in the darkness and grabbed him, slamming him to the ground. He grunted and started to yell, but the Executioner brought down two hammer-fist blows on the fallen man’s temple. Satisfied he was out cold, Bolan told one of the marines to secure him, and stood, just as a voice from the other side of the building called out in Spanish, “The marines are here! The marines are here!”
Seconds later a siren began to wail, followed by staccato bursts of gunfire. It had to be the cartel guards firing, as Bolan and all the marines had sound suppressors attached to their weapons. Floodlights positioned along the fence blazed on, illuminating the night.
Bolan closed his eyes briefly and ripped off his night-vision goggles to avoid being temporarily blinded. He took another quick look around the corner. The fallen guard’s soccer partner, his rifle at the ready, was running toward Bolan’s position. The Executioner brought up the barrel of the MP-5, poked it around the building and squeezed off a three-round burst. The running guard jerked spasmodically, then crumpled to the ground.
The Executioner raced forward, shooting out the closest floodlight. The marine under the guard tower joined him, and Bolan knew Martinez and his three men were advancing on the other side. They had to get to the front of the building and take control of the situation.
The second floodlight along the fence line exploded and went dark. Bolan figured the marine in the tower was taking them out to cover the advance of his teammates. He had an M-16, which gave him greater range.
Ahead, two more cartel guards appeared around the corner, the red flashes of their firing weapons bright blossoms in the darkness. Bolan veered left as several rounds zipped by him. One of the marines fell.
Bolan brought the MP-5 to his shoulder and fired two three-round bursts at the cartel guards. Both men danced and twisted, silhouetted by the final set of floodlights as they dropped to the ground.
“Front gate and tower secure,” Martinez said over the radio.
Intel had estimated the number of hostiles to be between ten and fifteen, more if one of the cartel bosses was on-site. One could be aboard the incoming plane, in which case Bolan’s team could momentarily be facing a more substantial force. He slowed as they closed in on the front of the building. It was time to take out the remaining floodlights.
The Executioner took aim and shot the last two lights. Despite the ringing in his ears, he heard a mechanical squeal and knew that the big overhead door was rising.
Keying his mic, he checked with Martinez. “You might have trouble coming out the front end.”
“We have the front secured,” Martinez said over the radio, sounding breathless. “The van went inside. We are— Mierda!”
Bolan glanced around the corner and heard the sound of a metal-on-metal ripping crash as the van barreled through the opening, scraping the bottom of the rising door and sideswiping the door frame.
Martinez’s crew began firing at the vehicle. Bolan ducked back, avoiding a cross fire. The blasts of loud automatic fire emanated from the van, which continued toward the front gate. Bolan fired off a burst at it, then realized the futility and ceased.
“Send two of your men after it,” Bolan said into his mic. “The rest of us need to secure the warehouse. Perimeter containment, hold your positions.”
Two marines from Martinez’s team broke off toward the airstrip. Bolan motioned the man next to him to follow, then slipped through the open overhead door and headed to the right. The warehouse was fully lit and he could see three cartel guards running forward, sweeping the area in front of them with autofire.
Bolan stopped behind a section of rooms jutting from the wall. Several rounds pierced the wood and plasterboard. Bolan knew that his position offered only a modicum of cover and little concealment. His adversaries obviously knew where he was. Martinez surged forward, his MP-5 spitting out rounds. The cartel guards switched their aim, giving Bolan the momentary respite he needed to zero in on them with a pair of short bursts of fire. Two fell almost simultaneously, and as the third cartel guard switched his rifle back toward Bolan, Martinez popped up and shot the man.
Aside from the crudely constructed rooms along the eastern wall, the warehouse was basically free of obstructions. Some packaged items were stacked on the opposite side, and four box trucks were parked in the center aisle. Another cartel guard leaned around the corner of one of the trucks and brought up his weapon, but before he could fire, the Executioner sent a zipping stitch of rounds across the man’s chest. He tumbled forward. Across the room, Martinez and his team brought down two more
