The door swung open, and across the rooftop was Zúñiga’s two-man security detail crouched along the parapet and exchanging fire with the men below. The second white pickup truck had parked outside the garage doors in an attempt to block at least two of them, while the two Federal Police trucks had stopped about thirty yards back, the cops there hunkered down behind their pickups and triggering off volleys of fire when they could to pin down the others. From somewhere in the distance came the rhythmic and approaching drone of a helicopter’s rotors.
Corrales rushed to the edge of the parapet, and, one-handing his M16, cut loose a volley on the truck below, where the machine-gunner had positioned himself behind the back wheel.
Moore slung his arm beneath Corrales’s chin, choking him and forcing him back from the ledge as the gunner’s response chewed into the parapet and through Corrales’s ghost. “Stay the fuck back!” Moore screamed. The stupid punk would get himself killed before he had a chance to talk. And that, Moore knew, would be just his luck.
Zúñiga shouted to his men to cover him, while he ran beside the parapet to the other side of the roof, facing the back of the house, where the drainpipe ran down the wall to the ground. “Here!” he cried. “We can climb down here!”
Moore nodded his okay, was about to turn to Corrales—
When the door leading out onto the roof swung open, and one of the Aztecas, his face cast in half-shadow, lifted an AK-47 and let loose a vicious spray that tore into Zúñiga’s chest and sent him staggering back toward the parapet.
Moore was only a half-second behind in his reaction, but he couldn’t save the man. He squeezed off at least ten rounds into the Azteca, drumming the guy back into the door, where he slumped, leaving a blood trail above him.
And by the time Moore turned his head, Zúñiga was already gone, having tripped over the parapet to vanish over the edge.
Moore rushed over and leaned out for a look. Zúñiga lay there, crucified against the dirt, his shirt still blossoming with blood.
“Have you ever lost anyone close to you, a young man like yourself? Do you know what real pain feels like?”
Zúñiga had asked Moore those questions back at the Sacred Heart Church. They both knew real pain, and now one of them had finally found relief.
Corrales joined Moore, took one look at Zúñiga, then cursed at the guys below and ran forward to the front ledge. There, he cut loose with his rifle before Moore could stop him. He’d removed his sling but was still favoring his right arm and swinging the weapon wildly.
Gritting his teeth, Moore rose and sprinted toward the idiot, who was still firing and drawing the return fire of everyone below. Moore tackled Corrales, wrenched away his rifle, then rolled him over and delivered a roundhouse squarely into the kid’s jaw. “I’ll fuck you up even more if you do that again! You hear me?”
Corrales looked odd.
And Moore realized he’d screamed in English.
“You are a fucking gringo! Who are you?”
The whomping of that approaching helicopter, along with its lights, caught their attention — and the notice of the gunmen below, who switched fire on the bird as it thundered overhead, searchlight panning across the house. The pilot wheeled around and descended toward the backyard, where he had a wide-enough and level-enough swath of land to set down. There was no mistaking the bird’s insignia: POLICÍA FEDERAL, the words lit by the ricocheting rounds sparking off the fuselage.
But were these Corrales’s allies come to pick him up? If so, Moore wasn’t sure he’d be welcome to tag along. He fished out his smartphone, checked the most recent message from Towers: I’m in the chopper. Get to it.
That’ll work, Moore thought.
“Aw fuck, look at that,” said Corrales, shifting his head to spot the helicopter. “It’s over. We’re all going to jail.”
“No, those are my guys,” Moore told him.
“You’re a gringo who works for the Federal Police?”
“We’re just borrowing their ride. Stick with me. My deal with you is much better than the one you had with him. You’ll see.”
Moore rose and shouted to the guys on the roof to cover them once more, but the guys told him to fuck himself and ran off, through the rooftop door and back into the house.
As Moore helped Corrales to his feet and over to the ledge and the drainage pipe, muffled gunfire came from inside the house. Zúñiga’s men had been met by more Aztecas, no doubt, and it was safe to assume they’d lost that debate and that the Aztecas were coming up.
“I can’t climb down that,” cried Corrales, the rotor wash whipping in their faces now, as the chopper was a few seconds from touching down.
“GET DOWN THAT PIPE!” Moore screamed, summoning up a fiery tone from the past, echoing one of his own instructors from BUD/S. He repeated the command two more times.
Shuddering, Corrales climbed over the parapet and set his shoe on the first support strap. The straps would serve as rungs of a ladder down, but admittedly, Moore wasn’t sure that Corrales, with his bad arm/shoulder, could make it.
“No, no way,” said Corrales, trying to lower himself to the next rung.
Moore screamed at him again.
The rooftop door swung open.
“GO!” Moore hollered, craning his head toward the banging door.
Two Aztecas appeared, one armed with a rifle, the other with a machine gun.
They didn’t see Moore at first, because all the rotor wash forced them to squint and Moore had dropped to his rump, shoved his back up against the parapet, and kept low, with the stock of the M16 jammed squarely into his shoulder. It really was a beautiful piece of steel and felt perfect in his hands. For just a few seconds, he was back in the SEALs, and Frank Carmichael was still alive.
Then, either out of nervousness or gut instinct, he reached back, thumbed the selector to three-round bursts, and shifted his aim to the machine-gunner.
The first triplet of fire kicked the bastard sideways, away from his buddy, who swung toward the sound of Moore’s weapon. That the Azteca had turned was his final mistake, as Moore now had a clear bead. All three rounds pierced the guy’s left breast. If he still had a heartbeat as he hit the ground, then you could chalk that up to a miracle.
As Moore turned back to see how Corrales was doing, the dumbass kid lowered himself to the next support strap, lost his grip, and plunged the remaining ten feet to the ground. His feet struck hard, then he fell back, landing across Zúñiga and letting out a cry. Then he wailed in pain.
Good. Dumbass was still alive.
Two Federal Police officers from the chopper were already rushing over in full combat regalia, letting their Heckler & Koch MP5 nine-millimeter submachine guns lead the way. Moore shouted down to Corrales, “Go with them! Go with them!”
He wasn’t sure if the kid heard him or had been knocked unconscious, but he wasn’t moving.
The two cops dropped to the dirt as gunfire came from the corner, at least two muzzles flashing. Moore rose and rushed along the parapet to the corner of the roofline, looking directly down on the two Aztecas who’d pinned down the cops. They never knew what hit them — that is, until they were lying in pools of their own blood and staring up at the sentinel, who shifted away from the roofline. The last image they’d ever see.
“You’re clear, go!” Moore shouted to the cops. Then he raced once more along the opposite edge of the roof, toward the garage doors, where he spotted three more Federal Police cars heading up the dirt road, with lights and sirens.