Family Matters Page 9

  He smiled at the dark eyed de la Sedro. “Thank you for stopping your friend there,” he nodded towards Marcos.

  Ben stared emotionlessly back. “You won’t be thanking me in the morning, Senor Grimsrud.”

  Derek’s hair stood up on the back of his neck at the use of his surname. If they knew it, they probably knew who his parents were. A cold calmness settled over him. He could hear a mosquito close by and the night noises of the jungle became clearer. A quick glance at the clear sky told him what he needed. He nodded at de la Sedro, turned to his right and began slowly walking north towards the waiting undergrowth. He could hear the men behind him charging their weapons; he smiled at the familiar sound. He checked his watch – it was 12:30 am.

  *****

  Derek was heading about 5 degrees east of where Craig was ensconced. He keyed up his mic, “Camo-man/Gunny; Mr. Black is headed at 1 o’clock from the cabin.”

  “Copy that, Gunny,” replied Lazarus. He tapped Langston on the head and the shepherd fell in behind him. It took about 5 minutes to intersect the line Craig had given him. All the team were further out from the cabin than Gunny. They had no idea which way Derek would take, so they had covered the entire 360 degrees.

  Lazarus spotted Derek through his night vision goggles. He was 30 yards ahead of Lazarus and angling more to the east.

  “Gunny/Camo; eyes on the prize.”

  “Copy that.”

  The next few minutes could be dicey, but Lazarus was counting on Langston’s training and instincts. He led the shepherd to Derek’s trail to give him the man’s scent. Langston sniffed the ground for a moment and sat. He was ready. “Langston, obtenir mon ami,” Lazarus commanded.

  Langston took off at a lope, quickly closing the gap with Derek. Lazarus was counting on Derek as much as he was Langston. They had only met once, and Derek knew the dog could be as cold-blooded as his master.

  Derek heard something or someone behind him. It hadn’t been twenty minutes, but then again, why wouldn’t they cheat. His eyes had adjusted to the night and the light of an almost half-moon, but the heavy canopy coupled with the matching undergrowth didn’t help much. He soundlessly lifted himself to a low-hanging branch and took out the knife. It was dull, but it still had a point of sorts. He slowed his breathing; focusing on his back-trail.

  Whatever it was stopped. Derek couldn’t see anyone. That made him nervous. He didn’t know how good these men were as trackers. He froze when he caught a sparkle of green reflected in the light of the waxing moon.

  His first thought was panther. He was aware they were indigenous to this region. He stared slightly to the left of where he saw the reflection, looking for movement. A few seconds later he was rewarded with another flash of green. Still, the animal didn’t move. Derek was beginning to think he might be screwed. He was confident he could handle Camacho’s wannabe soldiers; a full-grown male panther was an altogether different situation.

  He stood up slowly trying to find a way out. Then it hit him. Panthers climb, and they climb well. Derek grinned despite his position. He looked up at the moon and breathed deeply. His lungs filled with the smell of the jungle. A smell he knew quite well from his SERE training fifteen years ago. (Survival, evasion, resistance and escape).

  “Lord, if you’re listening, I know we don’t talk much. Well, I don’t anyway,” he said with a chuckle. “I’d appreciate it if you’d look after my family. That’s really all I want.” With the knife in his right hand, he dropped to the jungle floor.

  Lazarus noted Langston had stopped moving. The GPS on his collar told him he was about 10 yards ahead of him. He crept closer, scanning ahead with his night vision.

  He spotted the shepherd just as Derek dropped to the trail in front of the dog. Langston didn’t move. Derek just stood there, knife in hand, waiting. Lazarus inched closer and Langston stood; head down, hackles up – he’d seen the knife, too. It was about to get messy.

  Lazarus risked a short whistle. They were a good quarter mile from the cabin and Young Bear was between them and the hostiles. Langston sat down at the sound. Derek looked past him. The dog was well back in the undergrowth, and Derek had yet to see anything but two green eyes staring at him from the concealment. The whistle threw him, yet at the same time sparked the memory of a 110-pound German shepherd he’d met about 3 years ago.

  “Good boy?” he queried into the darkness.

  The brush parted as Langston emerged from the shadows. He approached Derek, then licked his hand before laying down at his feet, fully alert and looking back the way he came. Right on cue, Lazarus stepped into view.

  “Was-sup, Derek?” asked Lazarus casually.

  Derek held back a smile. “Just walking the dog,” he replied.

  “Good-looking shepherd you got there. Does he have a name?”

  “Yep.”

  “You gonna tell me?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  Derek shrugged. “I can’t seem to recall it, under the circumstances.”

  “Well, that figures,” said Lazarus as he stepped up, wrapping Derek in an almost brutal hug. “His name is Langston, dumb-ass.”

  Derek was in shock, but it was the good sort. “Like I said, I couldn’t remember his name, smart-ass,” he replied with a slap on Lazarus back.

  “So, you need a lift?” asked Lazarus.

  “Wouldn’t turn one down. It’s a long damn walk to El Paso.”

  “Come on, your team is waiting for you.” Lazarus keyed his mic, “Camo/team; package is secure. I say again, package is secure.” He could almost see the smiles through the “copy, that” comments that followed.

  Derek looked at Lazarus. “All of them?”

  “Yep, the whole kit-and-caboodle. They’re on vacation with me, thanks to the generosity of an old Marine General who goes by the name of Fischer.” Lazarus started back the way they came. “It’s time to go, but first I need to send a little message to Andres.”

  “It wasn’t just him,” said Derek; almost as disappointed as he was angry with Weaver.

  “I know,” said Lazarus. “Weaver sold you out. I’m going to deal with that mother-fucker personally.”

  Derek opened his mouth to protest. He wanted it kept in-house. One look at Lazarus and he let it go. There was no way in hell anyone could deter the Chameleon when his mind was made up. Lazarus? Maybe you could reason with him. The Chameleon? Never. Weaver

  was officially among the walking dead.

  It took less than 10 minutes to get to Young Bear’s position. Derek got a grunt and a hand-shake out of the Marine. On a scale of 1 to 10, it was clearly a 9 when it came to emotional displays by his Meskwaki pilot. The hint of a smile was the icing on the cake.

  “What now, Boss,” he said to Derek.

  “It’s your op, Gunny; finish it.”

  Young Bear nodded and keyed his mic, “Assume attack positions; execute at 0115. Camo and Delta will start the action as planned. Remember, the pilot and de la Sedro need to survive.”

  “Copy, that,” came the replies.

  “Gunny/Gusto,” Craig said next.

  “Go Gunny.”

  “Is the bird prepped?”

  “Brown and basted, Gunny,” replied Reichart.

  “Timer?”

  “Remote control type, optional, too,” said Reichart.

  “Copy that,” said Craig as he turned to Derek. “The Huey is loaded with C-4 and a cell-phone trigger. We had the option to blow it or let it fly. I made the call with Lazarus’ input to let it fly. It will be a valuable weapon wherever and whenever we need to use it.”

  “Good call, Gunny.”

  “Thanks, Boss,” he replied. “Let’s get this done.”

  ~11~

  November 12

  1:10 am – cst

  Camacho’s men were getting prepared for what they expected to be a short hunt. Marcos passed around a bottle of Cuervo. Most of the men were well on their way to drunk. Ben and Antonio refrained from drinking, as
did Clark the pilot. Clark didn’t think much of the tradition. Two tours in Vietnam had been enough for him.

  He sometimes wondered how he ended up a pilot for a Mexican Drug Cartel. The answer was always the same. He got to fly a Huey and he liked the money. He stayed out of the gun-play; that was enough for him. While the men prepared for the hunt, Clark bedded down in a tent beside the chopper like every other night for the last 15 years.

  Ben sat on the porch in one of the two canvas chairs. He, like all the men, were dressed in surplus Mexican army fatigues. Their footwear varied from man to man as did the headgear. Ben wore an L.A. Dodgers baseball cap with a red and white bandana around his neck. The rest wore anything from an old broken-down cowboy hat to Aussie hats or canvas fishing hats. All were in various shades of green. Most wore typical combat boots except for Jesus, who sported a pair of Tony Lama cowboy boots. Not very practical in the jungle but he wouldn’t wear anything else.

  Marcos spoke up. “Come on Ben, it’s been 45 minutes. That’s more than we usually give those pendejos we hunt.”

  Ben glanced at his watch. It showed 12 minutes after one. “Patience, Marcos, we have all night to catch the gringo. He’s not going anywhere fast. If he’s lucky, he’ll avoid the big cats and snakes – if not?” Ben shrugged and took a draw on his cigarette. “Have another drink and relax.”

  Marcos took the bottle from Rene and took a long pull. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and passed it back. “The gringo might not be the only one who doesn’t make it through the night,” he muttered under his breath with a glance at Ben.

  Rene shook his head slowly. “Not now, Marcos, now is not the time for such talk.” He didn’t seem to have any objection to what Marcos said, only precautionary. Marcos nodded in agreement.

  *****

  Gunny keyed his mic twice in rapid succession. He was rewarded with 6 separate double clicks in return. Everyone was in place. He watched the minute hand as it snapped silently to 1:15 am.

  *****

  Carlos and Antonio’s heads canted slightly to the right; trying to identify a high-pitched whistling sound. A second later Ben was pinned to the cabin wall with an arrow through his upper left chest, just below the collarbone. Not a fatal wound, but it took the man out of the fight as his AR fell to the ground.

  Simultaneously, Jesus took a separate arrow straight through his throat. The shaft protruding from his neck; the broadhead buried three inches in the soft wood of the cabin. Jesus managed a gurgling half-scream as he clawed in vain at his bloody throat; dead in less than 30 seconds.

  The two shots were followed by silence. Camacho’s men scrambled for cover behind the Yukons.

  Sheffield was approximately 80 feet up in a Mexican elm tree. Reichart was spotting for him on the branch above.

  “Two-hundred and twenty meters, wind nil, humidity 90%, elevation 21.5 meters.” Gustaf read off the numbers.

  Sheffield adjusted the elevation on his scope for the downward shot with two clicks on the back knob. He took in a breath and held it. His knuckle turned a shade lighter as he pulled back on the trigger. The 8.59 millimeter round left the muzzle at 936 meters per second; taking less than a quarter of the first second to reach its target – Rene Gutierrez never even knew what hit him. The bullet entering the base of his skull with more impact than a .44 magnum at 10 feet.

  One second later the second round hit Carlos Martinez as he was turning towards Rene. The left side of his face exploded as the round went through his right ear. Neither man made a sound.

  Sheffield and Reichart had already taken cover behind the massive trunk of the 70-meter elm before Marcos and Antonio began firing at the tree. They were shooting blindly. Fear and the adrenaline that accompanied it made it impossible to hold their weapons steady; quickly emptying the 30-round magazines. They hit the release at virtually the same time, ejecting the empty mag as they reached for another.

  Antonio looked to his left as he was fumbling with the magazine. He froze for a split-second when he realized he was looking at a short woman dressed in jungle BDU’s. He didn’t see a weapon, so he slammed the fresh magazine home and charged the AR. He was bringing it to bear when a knife sliced into his left bicep. He quickly dropped the weapon; crying out in pain. The last thing he saw was a cold smile as she released a second knife. This one piercing his heart. Antonio dropped to his knees, a look of surprise on his face. Soundlessly he pitched forward, driving the knife completely into his chest.

  Marcos took off running. He dropped his spare magazine when the first knife hit Antonio. He barreled around the south end of the cabin looking over his shoulder. He ran head on into what he thought was a tree, although it gave just a little. Marcos fell to the ground; staring up into the eyes of the largest and darkest man he’d ever seen. Mumphord was dressed entirely in black – his signature style. The only thing Marcos could make out were Elijah’s eyes. A second later he saw teeth as the monster before him smiled. His scream was cut short when Mumphord picked him up by the throat with his left hand, cupping Marco’s chin in his right palm. Elijah flicked his wrist. The sound of Marco’s neck snapping echoed off the wall.

  *****

  Clark woke to the sound of gunfire. He couldn’t see much from where he was and didn’t care. He tossed his gear into the Huey and started the pre-flight checklist, which he was shortcutting in every way possible. Clark was reaching for the fuel relay switch when he felt the cold steel of a pistol against the back of his head.

  “Slowly, Clark, and you might live to see another day,” said Gunny. “Cycle her back down and let’s go have a chat.” Clark did as he was told. Hell, he wasn’t even armed. Craig already considered the pilot a non-combatant. He took a circuitous path back to the hut where the rest of the team was gathering.

  Mumphord was using that time to remove the arrow from de la Sedro. He cut through the shaft an inch from Ben’s shoulder.

  “No bullshit, dude,” Elijah said, “this is gonna hurt.” Not waiting for a reply, he pulled Ben off the wall to a muffled groan and laid him on a blanket. Elijah went to work on the wound, cleaning and plugging it before stitching it closed. The shot of morphine he’d received before being yanked off the wall eased the pain for Ben. He nodded to Elijah in gratitude.

  Lazarus leaned over Elijah’s shoulder. “Buenos noches mi amigo, como está usted?

  Ben grunted a laugh. “I’ve been better, Hefe,” he replied with the term of honor.

  “Sorry about the shoulder, but I had to make it looked real,” said Lazarus.

  Ben looked around for Clark before answering. “Si, I understand, but couldn’t you have shot me in the leg or something?”

  Lazarus laughed. “No, amigo, I couldn’t. Everyone knows I am a dead shot. Besides, I could have hit your femoral artery if I went for the leg. Arrow deflects off a leaf or the bone, and you’re dead in seconds.”

  “I guess I should thank you then,” grunted Ben with a half-smile.

  “No need to thank me, Ben. Keeping Mr. Black safe is payment that will last a lifetime.”

  Derek leaned over, “Thank you Senor de la Sedro. I understand I owe you my life.”

  “Da nada, Senor Black. There is little I wouldn’t do for el Hefe, el Chameleon. It was my pleasure. I only wish I could have stopped Marcos from hitting you with the gun.”

  Derek laughed. “No worries, Ben. I’ve been hit a lot harder by my friends in training. I was ready and went with it. I probably got a slight bruise to show for it if anything. We’re good.”

  Lazarus whistled for Langston and the shepherd came out of the elephant ears that bordered the north side of the clearing. He trotted up to his master and presented himself for a treat and an ear scratch; the two things Langston loved most.

  Lafayette and Reichart entered the clearing and began unrolling two long ropes they carried. Wordlessly they went about dragging the five dead men to the front of the cabin; tying their ankles with a length of rope. Mumphord took the loose ends and fed them over the porch bea
m and lifted each of the corpses until their hands were a few inches above the ground. He tied of the loose ends and left them hanging.

  “That work for you, Camo?” Mumphord asked Lazarus.

  “Perfect. Grimsrud,” Lazarus called to Derek. “I need you on the porch and Ben on the floor in front of you.”

  Mumphord and Johnson laid Ben to the right of the hanging bodies; his face toward the camera. His entire shirt was soaked with blood from the very real wound in his shoulder. After Elijah got him as comfortable as possible, he nodded to Derek

  Derek stepped up and placed his right foot on Ben’s hip; leaning his weight onto the AR15 in his left hand. It was a classic “Big game hunter” pose, only Derek wasn’t smiling.

  November 12

  3:06 AM – CST

  Lazarus pulled out a cell phone and snapped several pictures. He flipped through them until he found one that he was satisfied with. He punched in a number with a message and sent it off to Katsumi. Katsumi would edit the photo; make it sharper while adding a text box per Lazarus instructions.

  “The hunting has been quite good. Wish you could have joined us.” The line below read, “See you soon, Andres. The Chameleon.”

  Katsumi forwarded the photo through twelve different servers before having it sent straight to Camacho’s phone.

  Lazarus checked on Ben. “You good, amigo?”

  “Si, Hefe. Thanks to the shot of whatever that was your doctor friend gave me.” Ben had a half-stoned glazed look in his eyes. The morphine was working well.

  Lazarus put his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “I owe you, my friend.”

  Ben shook his head and replied with a voice full of sleep. “No, Hefe. You saved my wife and daughter from the Sinaloa’s. It is I who will always owe,” he slurred the last three words as he fell asleep. Lazarus smiled, patted Ben’s hand and stood. Mumphord picked the sleeping man up and carried him out of sight.