“No, but Layton’s guys will need the extra gun more than I do.”
“Watch yourself.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Avery covered Aguilar as the Colombian approached the building’s back entrance. Aguilar announced his arrival, and a haggard-looking DEA agent appeared in the doorway with the muzzle of his MP7 directed safely toward the ground. He waved Aguilar in.
Avery watched the Colombian disappear into the back of the apartment building, and then he took off down the alley in a sprint, holding his M4 in front of him with stock nestled in the crook of his arm. He swept his rifle left to right, across windows and rooftops on either side, and then he swung it around to check his six.
The alley was clear, but Avery still found himself jumping at the slightest sound. The frequent exchanges of gunfire coming from the other side of the block didn’t concern him, but when a rat scurried out of an overturned trash receptacle, he swiveled fast around with the M4 and took first pressure on the trigger as he acquired the source of the noise in his sights. He exhaled with relief when he saw the rat running toward him. Then it stopped short, looked up at him, and, seeing him for the first time, screeched and fled in the opposite direction.
Avery emerged from the end of the alley where there was a T-intersection with the main street. He searched the line of houses and apartments running perpendicular with the alley, and caught movement in his upper peripheral. He passed his sights over a third floor window in time to see the shades flutter.
A small boy peeked out. Avery kept his finger on the trigger, sights trained on the window. He assessed the boy as a non-threat and moved on. Even if the boy’s dad had the Empresa leader on speed dial right now, it wouldn’t make much difference at this point.
Avery turned right onto the intersecting street, putting the battleground behind him, and continued running down the center of the street. He turned the corner onto the next block. Looking over the lines of parked vehicles, his eyes were drawn to an old, beat-up GMC half-ton with an open bed. The truck was from the ‘80s and didn’t much look fit to drive, but then neither did any of the other parked cars and trucks. The GMC was rusted, weathered, dented, and looked like it still sported its original paint job, but it was the largest vehicle in sight, and it was old enough to not have a built-in immobilizing alarm system or any other modern hindrances.
Avery sprinted to the truck. He smashed out the driver side window with the butt of his M4, reached inside, unlocked the door, and opened it. He brushed the bits of glass off the seat with his gloved hands and climbed into the cab, positioning himself beneath the dashboard.
He pulled a utility knife from his pants pocket and used it to pry open the plastic covers housing the massive bundles of colored wires under the steering column. He sifted through the wires until he found the grouping that ran into the steering column itself. The time consuming part was identifying the individual wires in the bundle for the power and starter. Once he located these, he separated them and carefully stripped them of their plastic covers with his knife. He twisted the ends of the wires together and knew he was on the right track when everything in the truck suddenly switched on, though he grimaced at the particularly loud Cuban dance music suddenly blaring from the radio. He touched the two ends of the wires together and involuntarily flinched at the resultant spark. He heard and felt the engine cough to life and sputter a couple times before easing into a low, steady rumble.
Avery sat up behind the wheel and shut the door. He set his M4 on the passenger seat with the butt facing him, and switched off the radio.
Five minutes had elapsed since he left Aguilar. Under the circumstances, anything could have happened during that time, but he hadn’t heard anything from the Colombians or Layton, so he optimistically assumed that they were holding up okay.
Avery threw the gear shift into drive and hit the gas. The truck accelerated loudly down the street, coughing and sputtering thick black diesel exhaust into the air. He made the sharp turn into the alley without slowing, and was at once barreling down on two Empresa shooters a hundred plus feet ahead. Both men shouldered their rifles, and one man raised a hand to wave Avery down, commanding him in Spanish to stop, not yet sure if Avery was just some local asshole who hadn’t heard there was a firefight taking place or if he was one of the American agents.
Avery pressed the accelerator to the floor and felt the truck give a kick as it picked up speed.
The Empresa would have no doubts now.
Avery ducked his head down as they opened fire. The windshield shattered, raining glass around him. Then he heard the front right tire take a hit and burst, and he felt the forward weight of the truck shift and the turbulent recoil of the suspension.
The truck veered forcefully to the right. Avery eased his foot off the gas and slowly applied the brake as he steered through the blowout. To keep the vehicle from flipping over or crashing, the idea was to steer in the direction of the drag until you reacquired stability and control, but the alley was tight and didn’t offer sufficient space. If the truck kept turning, he’d hit a building or offer his broadside to the shooters, and fiberglass vehicles didn’t stand a chance against bullets.
Avery added more pressure to the brake and clutched onto the wheel tight, two handed.
The truck came to a sudden and violent halt when its front bumper collided into a wooden utility pole, cracking the wood and bending the pole inward over the now crumpled hood of the truck. Power lines sagged, dangling over the roof of the cab, and Avery was thrown forward, while his rifle flew off the seat next to him and onto the floor. His forehead smacked the edge of the dashboard, and the wheel dug into his ribcage. He took the pain and lay still and listened.
A couple more shots plinked through the left fender, and then the gunfire let up.
There was an exchange of Spanish-speaking voices. Avery heard enough to know they were talking about checking to see if he was alive. One man sounded confident that he’d hit the driver, and Avery was happy to have them believe it since that would buy him a few seconds.
The voices grew louder as the men approached the truck. Avery pictured them walking slowly and cautiously, with their weapons trained on the cab. He heard the clicking of a mag release disengaging, followed by an empty magazine clanging against the ground.
Careful to stay below the dash and out of sight, Avery repositioned his body so that he could draw his Glock from the holster on his right side. Glocks have no external safeties; just draw and fire. He took a couple deep breaths to clear his head and pump oxygen into his brain. White dots speckled his vision, but he couldn’t sit around waiting for his vision to clear. The Empresa were drawing nearer, and he needed to act before they reached the truck.
Avery took in one more breath and exploded up in his seat as quickly as his battered body allowed. He felt the effects of the blow to his head; his senses and reaction time impaired. Blood dripped into his left eye, stinging. His ears rang. He felt overcome by dizziness, and he wanted to vomit. Everything seemed to transpire in slow motion as he aimed the Glock over shards of jagged, broken glass through the shattered windshield.
The approaching Empresa men stopped in their tracks, twenty-five feet away. One of them yelled out in Spanish and readied his AK, while his partner desperately reloaded, fumbling for a magazine from the pocket of his baggy, oversized cargo shorts.
Avery’s mind assessed the former as the more immediate threat. He aimed through the windshield, aligning the white dot over the blurry shape of the target, and his index finger firmly pressed the trigger back again and again, three times. He saw the .40 caliber bullets strike against the target’s center mass, red clouds materializing briefly with each impact, and the body jerked with each hit.