He flipped the lights of the basement on and looked around. Cobwebs and a leaking pipe in the far corner. And a large piece of plywood that was nailed to the wall. Trent walked up to the plywood, pounding. A dull, hollow sound.
The tunnel entrance. He pushed it forward and it gave a bit, rotating upward on a ceiling-mounted hinge.
Shouts and screams from above. The sicarios had entered the home. His shoulder-mounted passenger was now doing his best to give muffled shouts through his well-taped gag.
Trent kept his rifle slung over his shoulder and repositioned the body bag so that he was holding it in front of him with both hands. He used the man’s squirming, wrapped body as a battering ram as he forced his way into the wooden tunnel entrance, lifting it and moving forward. The wood slammed down once they were through. Rojas would have a few more bruises. Screw him.
But while the tunnel allowed for a quick escape, he expected the narcos to continue pursuit. Trent grabbed a small device from his waist pack and placed it on the floor, careful to position the shaped charge so that it faced the entrance. He set the motion detector and backed away slowly. Then he once again heaved the body bag over his shoulder and ran down the dark tunnel, carrying Rojas toward a faint bluish light that he prayed was the exit.
Seconds later he was stepping through a concrete cylinder eight feet in diameter — the kind used in constructing an underground sewer — with the tunnel exit in view. He forced his way through the thin metal screen at the opening and stepped out into the night.
Trent found himself underneath the highway overpass, a scant few hundred yards from the narco home.
A detonation behind him shattered the still night.
The mine had exploded on the other side of the tunnel. Adrenaline still racing through his veins, he ran to the nondescript sedan that had been pre-positioned under the highway overpass earlier that day by Max. Trent removed the key fob from his pocket and clicked the button, hearing the unlocking sound and seeing the lights flash. Trent opened the trunk and stuffed the man inside, then slammed the lid back down.
He removed his black tactical vest with its heavy SAPI plate and left it on the ground. Then he placed a ball cap on, started the vehicle, and drove. With his spare hand, he reached to his microphone and pulled it to his lips. “I’m moving.”
Chapter 12
Max and Renee arrived at the airport just as Trent pulled in. They were on the opposite side of the main terminal, where only a few business jets were on the unlit tarmac, along with a tiny light-sport aircraft.
“Where’s the plane?” asked Max.
Renee said, “Wilkes assured me it would be here.”
Trent got out of his car, the sound of a million police sirens in the distance. They each knew that the cartel would be looking for those who had caused all that carnage and kidnapped their man.
“What the hell? What are we doing sitting around with our thumbs up our assess? Where’s the CIA plane?”
Max saw a dim green flash from the cockpit of the light-sport aircraft.
“Oh crap.”
Max walked over to the tiny plane and sure enough, the door opened, and a man got out.
“You Max?” the man said in Mexican-accented English.
“Yeah.”
“Wilkes sent me. Said you need transportation.”
The silence of the still night air was interrupted by accelerating vehicles. Max turned to see two black pickup trucks racing along the perimeter of the road.
Trent said, “Looks like they’re heading towards the main terminal. We need to get out of here. They’ll check here next.”
Max nodded, turning back to the pilot. “How many can you carry?”
The short Hispanic aviator looked between the group. “I only have room for one.”
Trent, hearing this, carried the squirming body bag with Rojas over to the pilot and dropped it at his feet.
“What… the hell… is that?”
“Cargo.”
“Hey, man, I’m not taking it by myself. It’s going to be a seven-hour flight, with a fuel stop in the middle.”
Trent removed a nonaerosol tranquilizer gun from his bag, unzipped the body bag to reveal a blindfolded and gagged Rojas, stuck him in the shoulder, and then zipped him back up.
“That should last him a few hours. He might need another shot before you guys reach your landing spot.”
Max looked at Trent. “What do you mean ‘you guys’? We won’t be able to fit. Listen, Renee and I have a cover here. And I’m… connected. We’ll go back to the hotel and make a call to Wilkes and get them to get us out of here.”
Trent frowned. “This is not going to be a good place for you to be. If anyone sees you come back right now—”
“We’ll be alright. You need to get in and go now, before we get spotted. If Rojas starts squirming, stick him again, but be careful not to give him too big a dose.”
“I’m familiar.”
Max turned to Renee. “We need to get out of here and back to the hotel immediately.”
She looked scared but nodded and got back into the car.
A moment later, Trent was stuffed into one side of the light-sport aircraft with his sedated prisoner sitting on his lap. The aircraft buzzed away to the north.
Max and Renee went to a restaurant near their hotel, grabbed a drink, and then came back to the hotel, laughing and hoping that the concierge got a whiff of alcohol as they made their way up to the suite.
In the room, Max whispered to Wilkes on the secure phone. Their doors and windows were locked, and Renee sat next to Max on the bed, listening in.
“What the hell happened?”
Wilkes said, “I was going to ask you the same thing. What did you see?”
Max went over the events of the evening from their point of view. Every few moments, a police siren sounded outside, and flashing lights shone through the cracks in the shutters as vehicles sped down the road.
Max said, “You’ve got a mole, Caleb.”
He didn’t reply.
“We need protection and evac as soon as possible. Do you have any teams here?”
Wilkes said, “I’m working on it. But you’ll need to stay the night.”
Max closed his eyes. It wasn’t the news he had wanted to hear. Every moment they remained was another inch closer to someone connecting them to a street filled with dead narcos.
“Can’t we just use our car and drive to—”
“No.” Wilkes cut him off. “They’ve got road blocks set up everywhere. No one’s getting out of Mazatlán tonight.”
Renee cursed under her breath.
“Did you get the images Renee sent you of Blanco?”
“I did. We’re running them through facial recognition software now. Good work. Just sit tight, guys. We’ll have a safe transport for you in the morning.”
After a sleepless night, Max and Renee walked through the hotel lobby. A car was waiting to take them to the airport. While Wilkes was supposedly working on arranging for someone to come pick them up, Max wasn’t taking any chances. He’d contacted his father’s assistant. A Fend corporate jet, designated for his father’s personal use, was due to arrive in Mazatlán any moment.
“Hold up.” Max grabbed Renee’s arm as a convoy of SUVs, looking very much like the ones from the night before, pulled up outside the hotel.
“Oh shit.”
A group of armed men emerged, holding AR-style rifles. Max and Renee turned around, hoping to find another exit. As Max was about to tell Renee to run, a second team of gunmen came in the back of the lobby.
“Cell phones and computers, please,” one of them said, holding out an open backpack. Another had his weapon trained on them.