The answer came in the next few seconds.
Moore would bet his life on the fact that those local cops weren’t cops at all, and as they crashed through the gates, he felt even more certain. They all had shaved heads and arms crawling with tattoos. They’d either stolen the vehicles or been given them by corrupt officers.
Zúñiga’s security detail, about six guys who were positioned along the perimeter of the gate, with two guys up on the roof, opened fire on all the trucks, and the popping and booming of all those weapons sent Moore’s pulse racing.
Corrales arrived at Moore’s side and cried, “The Feds are trying to protect me!”
“Why would they do that?” Moore asked sarcastically. “Because your buddy Inspector Gómez sent them?”
“What the fuck? How do you know him?”
Moore grabbed Corrales by the neck. “If you come with me, I’ll offer you full immunity. No jail time. Nothing. You want to bring down the Juárez Cartel? So do I.”
Corrales was a young man who — when faced with certain death — did not quibble over details. “Okay, whatever. Let’s get the fuck out of here!”
The truck came bouncing forward toward the bay windows, its driver showing no intention of stopping. Even as Moore and Corrales bolted away, the truck plowed through the front of the house, cinder blocks and drywall and glass exploding inward as the pickup’s engine roared and the guys on the flatbed screamed and ducked away from the falling debris.
A couple of Zúñiga’s guys who’d been inside and in another part of the house rushed toward the truck, which was now idling in the living room. Zúñiga’s fresh troops traded fire with the guys in the flatbed. Moore hazarded a look back as the driver of the truck opened his door and thrust out an AK-47. He fired haphazardly but managed to hit one of Zúñiga’s men in the shoulder.
Moore and Corrales continued on toward Zúñiga himself, who was already in the kitchen and seizing a Beretta from the countertop.
Outside and visible through the gaping hole in the wall, the second police truck cut left, heading around the side of the house, toward the garage, with the two Federal Police trucks following. “If they cut off the doors back there, we won’t get out!” shouted Moore, his phone once more vibrating. That’d be Towers calling to warn him about the attack, a warning he was pretty sure he no longer needed.
Zúñiga’s men in the living room — one okay, the other shot but still clutching a rifle — began firing at the pickup’s driver, who was returning fire, along with the guys on the flatbed, the walls bursting apart under the fire.
And the second that machine-gunner opened up, rounds chewing into the fieldstone fireplace, Moore, Corrales, and Zúñiga burst down a hallway, heading toward the back of the house. Moore cursed. You didn’t need any more motivation than that.
Between the gunfire thundering in the living room and the shots booming outside, Moore had a flashback to Forward Operating Base Pharaoh in Afghanistan, where the gods of thunder and lightning had warred with each other all night. The news media had been calling Juárez a war zone for years, but Moore hadn’t fully appreciated that label until now.
“Give me a fucking gun!” screamed Corrales. “I want a fucking piece right now!”
Zúñiga ignored him, and they raced into the master bedroom, replete with a four-poster bed the size of a swimming pool. Here the walls were adorned with the framed silhouettes of nude women and fantastic art deco pieces depicting South American landscapes that must have cost Zúñiga a fortune. Moore had the better part of two seconds to appreciate those pieces before he spotted another pistol, this one the requisite Belgian-made police blaster, sitting atop a chest of drawers. He grabbed it, flicked off the safety, and spun back toward the sound of heavy footfalls in the hallway. One of the guys from the pickup had escaped from Zúñiga’s men and was running straight toward them, both arms raised, pistols in his fists.
Moore got off two shots, hitting the guy in the left breast and groin before rolling out of incoming fire, which must’ve gone high and thumped into the bedroom ceiling, as dust trickled down into his eyes.
“Holy shit,” cried Corrales, staring wide-eyed over Moore’s marksmanship.
“Go!” Moore ordered him.
Zúñiga was waving them on into the master bath, where a closet to his left opened into a massive wardrobe at least thirty feet wide, with a dressing table in the center. He shoved a key in the lock of a pair of tall wooden cabinet doors, swung them open, and grabbed a rifle, which he shoved into Corrales’s hands. Then he fetched another and thrust it toward Moore, who cursed in surprise.
“Where the hell did you get these?” Moore cried.
“eBay, gringo. Now come on!”
Moore could only shake his head in astonishment as he adjusted his grip on the Colt M16A2 with thirty-round magazine, standard U.S. Marine Corps issue and simply a larger, heavier version of the M4A1 carbines he’d used as a SEAL operator.
What was Zúñiga going to show them next? An M1A1 Abrams Main Battle Tank parked in a secret subterranean garage?
Moore thumbed the rifle’s selector lever, which included the safety and the semiautomatic options as well as a three-round burst option that saved you ammo. He chose semiautomatic, then leaned over toward Corrales. “Here, dumbass, the safety’s here.” He threw the lever and flashed a sarcastic thumbs-up.
The kid returned a middle finger.
And in that second, Moore swung his rifle up, past Corrales’s face, and shot the heavyset guy who’d just appeared in the doorway, holding his pistol with both hands.
Corrales screamed, cursed, then swung around and watched as the guy collapsed in a bloody heap.
“What the fuck?” Corrales said with a gasp. He raced over to the guy and hunkered down, examining a tattoo on the guy’s biceps: the circular image of an Aztec warrior with his pierced tongue extended. “They’re not Fernando’s regular guys,” said Corrales. “He’s Azteca. From the prison. An assassination squad.”
“Hired by your old boss?” asked Moore.
“No time!” cried Zúñiga. “Come on!”
Corrales rose and started toward Moore. “We’re fucking dead, dude. We are dead.”
“I don’t think so.”
They followed Zúñiga toward the other side of the closet, where he fumbled nervously with a key and finally opened another door. He reached in and threw a light switch.
“Where to now?” asked Corrales.
“Up,” answered Zúñiga.
“Up? Are you kidding me? What the fuck, old man! How’re we getting out!”
“Shut up!” Zúñiga faced Moore. “Now, Señor Howard? Lock the door behind us!”
Moore did so.
Zúñiga led them down a narrow hall, with their shoulders brushing the walls as they reached a metal staircase with about a dozen steps up to another door. Moore understood now. They were going to the flat roof above the garage and could find cover behind the surrounding parapet and drainage lines. Clever bastard. Zúñiga must know his Sun Tzu’s Art of War: “Never launch an upward attack on the enemy who occupies high ground; nor meet the enemy head-on when there are hills backing him; nor follow on his heels in hot pursuit when he pretends to flee.”