12
CLOSE BUT NO CIGAR
LORENZO
I'm point, with Kane behind my left shoulder and Chance behind my right. We're spread out a few feet while we navigate the maze of containers; Solomon was able to call in a marker and get us a satellite shot of the container yard, allowing us to create predetermined routes. We follow this memorized, predetermined route now, as fast as possible, jogging the echoing, shadowy channels between towering stacks of containers. Red, blue, yellow, black, and green containers are stacked five high in some places and up to seven in others, creating walls fifty and sixty feet high. A cough, a sniffle, a heavy step, every sound echoes and carries and dopplers back to us—if you don't know exactly where you're going, you could end up lost in this place for days, as each next path between stacks looks identical to the one before. One wrong turn, and we'll end up who knows where and miss the cue, miss the entire fight.
Thus, I recite the order of turns under my breath as we jog: "left, left, right, right, right, left, right, left, left, right." But don't get the order wrong. Don’t forget a turn.
"This fuckin' place, man," Kane murmurs as we pause at a three-way intersection. "Creepy and confusing."
I ignore him, chanting the turns loud enough to make my point—don't fucking distract me.
Chance slaps a hand on Kane's shoulder. "Unless you want to get lost, brother, shut the fuck up."
Kane goes silent. I slow the pace as we near the target zone—voices can be heard now, low, idle chatter and the occasional bark of laughter. Kane and Chance hold onto my shoulders, pulling our formation in tight. We make a left, jog straight down the corridor, another left; the voices sound like they're around the next turn, and we slow to a creep, approaching the last turn.
"…Y la puta intentó pegarme, como si no se lo pidiera..."…And the bitch tried to hit me as if she wasn’t asking for it…”
"Le diste una lección?"Did you teach her a lesson?
"Si'! Si!"Yeah, yeah.
Fuck that.
I hold up a fist to call a halt and then inch forward so I can peek around the corner; a pair of armed guards—Rafael's, I would assume, judging by their Spanish conversation, and the vile subject matter—loiter a dozen feet down the corridor, AK-47s dangling barrels-down as they share a cigarette. The scent wafts me to me, and it's semi-sweet and skunky—not a cigarette, then. Even better.
"Beta team in position," I breathe. "Ready."
A moment later, Alpha and Charlie report in ready almost in unison, followed by Delta.
"Lash?" Inez asks.
"Pugli is still inside. The men seem to be settling in for a long wait. I cannot be sure that Rafael does not have a way out that we cannot see. Who knows how extensive his preparations might be. We risk losing him, is my point." Lash hesitates, sighing. "We either wait for Pugli to exit, or we attack now while they're inside. There are risks either way."
"Attack," Inez says. "We’re as close as we've ever been. On my mark. Three—two—one—MARK!"
I swivel out from behind the cover of the corner, dropping the two guards in rapid succession—TAKTAK!TAKTAK!They drop to the ground, limp, boneless, and leaking brain matter.
Kane and Chance trot past me the second the rounds have left my barrel, reaching the next corner. Kane peers around, and then returns. "We missed a turn or something," he mutters.
I take a look as well—there should be a large group of soldiers around the corner, but there's not.
Just an empty corridor.
"Fuck," I snap. "Kane, look right, I'll go left. Chance, watch our six."
"Moving," Kane says, and jogs past me toward the right-hand turning while I go left. Chance stays where he is, watching our back-trail. Kane and I peek, pop back.
Kane signals that there's no one over there, and my side is empty too. Using hand signals, I indicate I'm moving forward and that he should do the same.
I round the corner and trot down the corridor—I hear voices again, echoing and tinny, their origin masked. Another corner; another peek.
A resoundingCRACK! shivers the air, the sharp report of Lash's rifle. Gunfire erupts, then, and shouts, curses, orders, in a jumble of languages. I hear running footsteps behind me and whirl just in time to see a tango round a corner behind me—the light and shadows and angles made it seem like a dead end when it wasn't. I drop to a knee and fire off a trio of rounds. He never even saw me, the unlucky bastard. My rounds take him in the chest and knock him backward—he's wearing a vest, however, and he only drops to a knee, gasping, and manages to crack off a single shot that sizzles past my ear with the buzz of an angry yellow jacket. I fire again, and his face explodes in a pink mist.
Chance appears beside me, and his rifle chatters—round thunk and rattle against the side of the container inches from the skull of another tango. He skids and wobbles in his attempt to throw himself out of the line of fire, trips and goes down to one knee, firing wildly. His rounds go high and wide, not even hitting metal; mine do not miss, and he joins his comrade on the ground.
CRACK!
