“Who is this?” Maria asked in English.
“Are you Maria Elizondo?”
“Who are you?”
“Let’s please not play this game,” the voice said. “I need you to go first.”
Maria hesitated, assessing the degree of threat this call might pose. Finally, she said, “Yes, this is Maria Elizondo.”
“Good. You can call me Mother Hen.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, I know it’s a stupid name, but it is what it is. I got this number from your FBI contact.”
“And that is supposed to make me trust you?” Maria scoffed.
“Actually, I don’t care. All I know is that your time in Mexico is about to come to an end, and that you’re going to escort my boss and a couple of others out of there.” She paused as if awaiting a response, but when Maria didn’t offer one, Mother Hen went on, “There’s been a complication.”
Maria’s heart fell. This was when they would tell her that she was on her own.
“You’re surrounded by a lot of soldiers, and that’s going to make it very difficult to get you out of there.”
“How many people are with your friend?” Maria asked.
“They’re three in all, but one of them is just a boy.”
“Two people, then?” Maria pressed her hand to her forehead. “So, we are finished,” she said.
“Heavens no, you’re not finished,” Mother Hen said.
“But with only two-”
“They’re a very special two,” Mother Hen said. “We have a plan. But for it to work, you have to listen very carefully.”
Normally, it was Boxers’ job to set explosives. In fact, blowing stuff up ranked among his favorite things to do. Tonight, though, the task fell to Jonathan because he was smaller and he could move faster and more quietly. In fact, he’d been able to run the first two blocks out in the open, albeit in the shadows, but now that he was so close to his prey, he had to slow down and be extra careful.
At an intersection three blocks west of the target house, he stopped completely, dropped to a knee, and flipped down his night vision goggles. Given the high levels of ambient light from the streetlamps, the NVGs were only moderately useful, but he’d take whatever advantage he could get. The nearest Mexican soldier should be only twenty or twenty-five yards away now. Jonathan pressed against the side of a pickup truck, and took time to survey his surroundings. For a long time-probably a minute-he saw no sign of the soldier he expected, and that concerned him. People who weren’t where they were supposed to be were by definition someplace where he wasn’t expecting them. He hated surprises.
Then he saw the guy. He was crouched behind another vehicle, and from the way he stretched, Jonathan figured that his leg had cramped up on him. Relax, kid, Jonathan thought. You’ll be moving soon.
Having left his ruck back with Boxers and Tristan, it was easy for Jonathan to lie on the ground next to the truck and prepare his charges. He’d stuffed his pockets with six GPCs-general purpose charges-which were wads of C-4 explosives with tails of detonating cord. Each packed a hell of a wallop, and in all the years he’d been using them, he’d never once experienced a failure. He pulled two from the thigh pocket of his trousers and pressed them into the wheel well of the pickup. He’d previously attached the electronic detonator and set the timer for seven minutes, a random number that he thought was sure to give him enough time to get back to the others before the show started.
He gave the explosives a light tug to make sure that they would hold, and pressed the button to start the countdown.
It wasn’t until he started to rise that he heard the footsteps approaching.
Shit.
“Hey, you!” someone called in Spanish. Jonathan knew without looking that it had to be the soldier. “What are you doing?”
Jonathan didn’t move. On the ground, on his side, his back facing the approaching soldier, Jonathan was a scary curiosity-maybe an enemy, maybe a passed-out drunk. The soldier wouldn’t shoot until he was sure one way or the other. That bought time. Now Jonathan had to figure out what to do with it.
Still on his side, he unclipped his rifle from its sling so that he’d have more mobility when he stood, and then he reached across with his right hand, unsnapped the strap that secured his KA-BAR knife to the scabbard on his left shoulder, and drew it. Gunshots at this moment would ruin everything.
“You there,” the soldier said. “Stand up.”
Jonathan didn’t move. The voice still sounded too far away. Much closer, though, and Jonathan’s clothing would give him away. Footsteps approached. Then they scraped to a halt and Jonathan heard the clatter of the guy’s weapon as he shouldered it.
It was time.
Jonathan spun from his side to his back, and as he did, he slashed the gleaming edge of his knife across the tendons behind the soldier’s knee. He dropped before his mind could register the pain, and as he fell, Jonathan sat up, pushed the soldier’s rifle to the side and slashed the knife across his wrist, severing the tendons that controlled his fingers. Without fingers, you can’t pull a trigger.
Jonathan’s final slash opened a gaping smile in the soldier’s throat. Amid a fountain of blood, the soldier toppled to his side, dead.
“Sorry, kid,” Jonathan said softly. Like soldiers everywhere, the youngest always died first. Inexperience bred hesitation-the deadliest of all weaknesses on a battlefield. In close-quarters battle, victory was won in the blink of time when questions formed in the other guy’s mind. In a fight with Jonathan, the odds were never evenly stacked. Even after so many years, though, he never got used to the killing.
To become inured to that kind of violence would be to surrender your humanity.
The clock ticked. In six and a half minutes there was going to be a crater where he was standing, and between now and then he had two more bombs to set.
Big Guy was a scary, scary man. He reminded Tristan of one of the predatory animals you see on cable television. As Tristan sat on the ground, his knees up and his back against the house where Scorpion had checked his email, he could see the intensity of the Big Guy’s glare even in the dark. He seemed perfectly at rest balanced on one knee. His rifle wasn’t at his shoulder, but it might as well have been. He held it as if it weighed nothing, his hands loose on the grip and the barrel.
There was a stillness about the Big Guy that seemed unnatural, or maybe supernatural. Only his head and eyes moved, and they moved constantly. Every time Tristan stirred, those eyes darted to him, and his spine melted. The man oozed lethality the way others oozed sweat on a hot day.
If Tristan understood the plan he’d overheard, Scorpion was planting bombs around the neighborhood to distract the people who were trying to kill them. There’d be a total of three explosions, each of them drawing the bad guys-that’s what Scorpion actually called them, bad guys-in different and wrong directions.
In the confusion, they would steal one of those army trucks-a Sandcat-to pick up somebody named Maria, and then yada, yada, yada, they’d be back safe in the United States.
Less clear to him was that middle part, the yada, yada, yada. They must have worked that part out when he wasn’t listening. It had something to do with tunnels. Tristan didn’t know how to break it to them, but he had a real problem with claustrophobia. He didn’t do tight places at all. It’d been all he could do to keep from going bat-shit crazy when he was shackled to Allison in the bus.
Jesus, how long ago was that? Was it only yesterday? Was that even possible?
And how long had it been since he’d slept? Not the occasional dozing he’d been able to pull off at various times, but real sleep? Surely longer than a week.
Just thinking about sleep made his eyelids heavy. He felt exhausted at a level that he’d never experienced. It was as if energy were held into your body by a spigot, and someone had twisted his all the way open. So tired that it hurt. As he closed his eyes, he wondered if he’d get in trouble for falling asleep at his post.