“Claymore mine,” he said, not daring to speak loudly enough for anyone else to hear. A hand detonator was strapped to a tree trunk with green duct tape, the stuff Morgan had learned to call hundred mile an hour tape in the Army. The stiff wire pressed the detonator lever in. If the wire were pulled any farther, the lever would move enough for contacts to connect, sending an electric spark down a wire to the blasting cap screwed into the top of the mine. The resulting explosion would scatter eight hundred BB sized steel pellets in his direction, turning him and Crazy Mike into bloody fragments.
Even if Mike tried to back off, the hook-shaped grommets of his speed-laced boot might pull the wire or press it enough to set the mine off. Kneeling, Morgan pulled his Gerber Multiplier survival tool from his pocket. He folded the handles together, exposing the jaws of its pliers. The first inch of the jaws was sharpened to be wire cutters.
“Over prepared,” he muttered to himself, kneeling. His BDU pants soaked in dampness from the ground, but he wasn’t concerned with his knees being wet. He did wipe his left hand down his pants leg, rubbing it free of sweat. He took three deep breaths, holding the last, because he knew that the slightest shaking of his hand could kill them. Guiding on his outstretched fingers, he gently wrapped the tool’s wire cutters around the thin strand. Tightly holding the wire on the side toward the mine, he slowly closed his left hand.
A quiet “snik” told him the wire was cut. After releasing his breath, he slowly released the held wire.
A moment later he was beside Mike again, whispering, “All clear.”
“Thanks, man.” Mike grinned in the darkness. “Saved my bacon again.”
“Don’t thank me. Just be ready to join me in a discussion about sloppy intel with Stone when we get back to civilization.”
More cautious now, the team moved on toward their target. Five minutes before daylight, they came within sight of the mission walls. Those stout barriers were little more than solidified shadows in the crescent moon’s pale glow, but Morgan could imagine their moss-covered stucco surface. With the wall in sight the group split up for each man to handle his prearranged assignment. Smitty and Josh headed for the edge of the clearing facing the front gate. They each carried a Mannlicher SSG double trigger sniper rifle. The rest of the team moved to the rear of the compound. Morgan could see only five guards on close patrol.
Back on Crazy Mike’s ranch, his team had spent ten days rehearsing this assault. They had built a wall, based on the photos and information Stone provided, and practiced with full-scale mockups until each movement was a conditioned reflex. Now Morgan lifted his watchband’s cover strap, counting seconds until the real show started. Three. Two. One.
“Party time,” Morgan whispered.
Around front, two rifle shots split the silence, almost as one. In the wake of those blasts, like thunder rolling across the sky, everything jumped. The two guards at the front flew against the gate. The other three perimeter guards ran around to the front. Morgan and his five men moved quickly to the rear wall of the fortress.
At its worst it was no more than seven feet high. Lee leaped up, hoisting himself to the top. Straddling the wall, he heaved his “Willie Peter,” a white phosphorus grenade. It flew entirely past the main house and landed on the roof of the garrison building beyond. Then he dropped back to the ground outside the wall just before the blast.
Morgan hopped up, hooking the top of the wall with his fingers, and pulled himself up until he could just see over its edge. In the distance he could see the first dim light of the new day approaching. Then the grenade went off like a miniature sun on the flat roof of the barracks.
While Morgan scrambled over the wall, Fallon was boosting Crazy Mike up to straddle it. Mike carried an M249 machine gun, the lightweight weapon that the United States Army designated as the SAW, for Squad Automatic Weapon. Mike quickly slid an ammunition box into place beneath his weapon and yanked the charging handle hard. The two hundred round belt within the box was now engaged.
Morgan dropped into the compound unopposed. Racing across the courtyard, he could picture all the action around him, just like a film running on a screen in his head. Maybe fifteen of the off duty guards would have escaped their building before the explosion. Crazy Mike would be cutting them down with the SAW by now. The other six mercs would be picking off stragglers with their AKM’s. Smitty and Josh would have long since cut down the other three outside guards from the safety of their concealment. If any of the outer ring guards with the dogs came within sighting distance of the compound, the snipers would eliminate them too.
Reaching the main house, Morgan swung his submachine gun around on its sling so he could fire from the hip. A startled soldier stared out the first window Morgan came to. He cut the soldier down and shattered the window with a single three round burst.
Soon he was standing in the bedroom doorway, shaking his head. Like most men of “power,” Carlos Abrigo stood in the middle of the floor in a pair of silk pajamas, looking back and forth in confused horror. To one side a woman in a matching nightgown screamed louder than the gunshots outside. What an idiot, Morgan thought. Thirty guards on staff, but only one had been in the house and only six on night duty within easy reach of the house.
Abrigo yanked out the drawer of his end table and produced a small pistol. His shaking hands waved the weapon in Morgan’s direction.
Morgan carried a Jeti machine gun. This Swedish weapon, smaller than an Uzi, sends its bolt up an inclined plane when recoiling, which eliminates the familiar muzzle climb found in other submachine guns. A four shot burst from that death machine slapped Abrigo against his bedroom wall and into Belize national history. Gunned down by terrorists, as the papers would say. A thorough man, Morgan knelt, feeling for a pulse in the fallen man’s neck. It was unnecessary.
Abrigo’s female companion had never stopped screaming, her fists balled up in front of her chest. “Woman, shut the hell up,” Morgan snapped as he strolled out.
Morgan clambered over the wall and pointed to Lee, who fired three shots into the air. That signal would tell Smitty and Josh it was time to retrace their steps. By the time the Belize Army arrived and followed their trail, they would be well out to sea.
“Hey, Morgan. We get twenty grand apiece, right?” Smitty asked, his dirty blond hair in his eyes again. Bright sunshine filtered through the vegetation above them dappled his face with soft shadows.
“Isn’t that what I promised you? Now, what you going to do with all that money?”
“Me?” Smitty looked confused for a moment. “Well, you know my dad ain’t doing so well. I figure I better help out with his mortgage. It’ll sure come in handy but, damn. It seems too easy.”
Morgan nodded his agreement. As leader, he would net ninety thousand dollars for one hour’s dirty work this morning. Despite Stone’s insistence to the contrary, this had not turned out to be a combat mission after all. The slaughter of Abrigo’s poorly trained protective force had been almost incidental. Perhaps the client had wanted to send some message to Abrigo’s backers, but an assassin could have handled this business much more cleanly. All things considered, he preferred combat and would never even consider a mission profile like this one again. On this assignment they had been over-manned and over-gunned. And they would certainly be overpaid.
At that moment the team broke the jungle line and stood within sight of the coastline. Morgan’s aching eyes welcomed the sight of the cool blue expanse of ocean and the large yacht that had delivered them to these strange shores. She stood at anchor, no more than a quarter of a mile out. Lee fired the three-shot signal that signified the mission’s success. The blast echoed through the jungle, but at that point, seconds away from leaving, Morgan figured a little noise could not make any difference. Besides, once a job was done he figured it was time to relax. His arms were feeling leaden and his steps shortened.