1
ENEMIES TO KILL
INEZ
Rage is an old familiar heat, forever pulsating at the core of me. Some days it gutters like a candle flame, other days it is a bonfire casting long coruscating shadows within me.
Now, the fire of my rage has burst its banks like floodwaters cascading over the top of a levee. I see red—literally. My vision is narrowed to a hyper-focused tunnel, so the only thing I see is the doorway of the trucking garage. All else is red-tinged nothingness, my hammering blood pressure filling my eyeballs with a flush of blood, staining everything a hazy crimson.
In contrast to the nuclear heat of my hate, I also feel an icy calm. It is a jarring juxtaposition. I am not acting recklessly. My hands are rock steady as I check the load of my MP5, tap the mag home, charge the weapon, and snug the butt against my shoulder. I've got four spare mags in my pockets and vest, four frag grenades, and two flashbangs.
I stomp across the road toward the warehouse, but before I reach it, I hear an engine behind me, and the crunch of tires on gritty asphalt as yet another car enters the trucking yard.
I spin in place, drop to a crouch, draw a bead on the driver of the early-aughts Corolla. There is no thought, no intent, only instinct. Reaction, instantaneous and automatic.
CRACKCRACKCRACK!
My MP5 is not a silenced model, unfortunately. I'd rather have an HK416, but my contact down here couldn't get his hands on any—jolts my shoulder as the rounds crater the car's windscreen. I see the driver jerk in the split second before the interior is bathed in a spray of red—I must have gotten a headshot. The driver's foot mashes the brake pedal as his body catches up to the reality that he's dead, and then his foot slides off the brake pedal and buries the accelerator to the floor, sending the car squealing forward in a wide arc. I hear shouts in panicked Spanish from the other occupants. The car smashes into the side of a parked trailer, wedging under it; the shouting cuts off abruptly upon impact.
I feel Lorenzo behind me, but my rage leaves no room for him. And I know Lorenzo. He'll have my back.
Rickety old wooden steps judder under my weight as I ascend them, and the oppressive heat of the Mexican sun is abruptly replaced by the relative cool of the shade beneath the covered loading platform.
I should wait for Ren.
Fuck it.
I kick the door in, planting my boot beside the doorknob. The frame splinters and the door slams open. Shocked exclamations greet me, a sea of surprised faces turning toward me, guns leveled at me. I spray a burst blindly before my eyes have adjusted; I have no idea if I hit anyone, but a howl of pain tells me I did.
My eyes adjust as I enter. Within, the interior of the warehouse is dimly lit by yellowish, flickering fluorescent bulbs, casting dancing shadows on cracked concrete.
There's a split-second of doubt—but the rage overwhelms it. These men are being paid by Rafael. They do his bidding. They know who he is. They know what he does. Upon his orders, thesemen will murder children and rape their mothers. I've seen it. I have been that mother.
I have felt their hands holding me down. I have tasted their hands smothering my screams as they force themselves inside me.
Not these men, but men like them. Gutless, soulless, mindless monsters, all.
The murder in my heart takes over.
They're stunned, confused into inaction. A couple of men return fire, but they are panicked and their rounds go high and wide.
Just inside the door at an angle, forgotten, is a large, waist-height rolling tool chest. I duck behind it, pause for the space of two breaths.
Swivel out from behind the tool chest onto one knee and spray a long burst into the crowd, raking my barrel at chest height from right to left. I duck back behind the cart as screams of pain rattle against the corrugated metal roof overhead.
They're not confused anymore—gunfire erupts, rounds dinging off the chest, smacking noisily into the bay doors behind me. I glance right as a long shadow stretches across the floor—broad shoulders, lean hips, ball cap: Lorenzo.
His hand drops from the grip of his MP5, grabs something from his vest. He tosses the object a moment later and then vanishes from the doorway. The object clatters; I peek out and see the telltale shape of a flashbang, and swivel back behind the cart. I plug my ears with my fingers and squeeze my eyes shut just in time. The light and noise are tremendous, and even plugged, my ears ring; even with my eyes shut and hiding behind a solid object, I have to blink the flashes away.
The small army of thugs and mercenaries is disoriented, stumbling into each other, rubbing eyes, shaking heads.
I grab a frag from my vest, pull the pin. "FRAG OUT!" I shout, so Lorenzo will stay behind cover.
I release the spoon and lob the grenade underhanded into the midst of the men and then duck back behind cover myself.
BOOOOOOOM!
Smoke boils and shrapnel cracks, dings, and ricochets in every direction, leavened by screams of agony.
