Against All Enemies (20 page)

“I’d lead if I knew where we were going,” Dylan said.

“Then follow.”

Venice had said that seven people lurked here in the trees. Assuming they were all bad guys, that left five, and if they were hired assassins, they were five talented shooters who no doubt had figured out that three of their buddies had already been off’d. That would give them pause, but it would also make them think. Surely, they had comms, and that meant they could coordinate.

“I need more gun than I have,” Jonathan said to Dylan. “Cover me, will you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He advanced on the body of the man he’d shot. It hadn’t been practical to wander through the streets of Panama City with a rifle in his hands, and if he had, chances were that Dylan would never have had the little girl approach him. Now he was stuck with his pistol and a total of fifteen rounds—thirteen, now—split between two magazines, and that wasn’t nearly enough firepower.

The dead assassin carried a battle-slung FN P90, which he’d dropped to his side as he fell. Jonathan was both impressed and bothered. A favorite of elite US government agencies—most notably the Secret Service and the CIA—the P90 was an ugly third cousin to his beloved MP7, firing a wicked 5.7 millimeter round at twenty-three hundred feet per second, and the weapon’s popularity had a lot to do with its ultra-diminutive size. Only twenty inches long and weighing just a little over five and a half pounds, in automatic mode the weapon fired at a rate of 900 rounds per minute. This was not a thug’s gun.

Jonathan examined the clear plastic 50-round box magazine and was pleased to see that it was fully loaded. He holstered his .45, threaded his arm through the P90’s sling, and thumbed the selector just be sure that it was set to full-auto. “How are we doing, Boomer?”

“It’s spooky,” he said. “I don’t see anybody. I mean, nobody. I want to move.”

“A few more seconds,” Jonathan said. He searched the dead man’s pockets for some form of identification, but found none. He did find an extra fifty-round mag, though, which he stuffed into a pouch pocket on his thigh. That done, he pulled out his smart phone, brought up his fingerprint app, and photographed the thumb and forefinger on the dead man’s right hand. It was far from perfect, but it was a pretty effective way to identify people.

He returned the phone to his pocket, brought the P90 to his shoulder, and then looked back to Dylan. “Your turn,” he said. “Get the lady’s gun and check for ID. I’ll cover you.”

With the tiny rifle pressed to his shoulder, his finger poised over the trigger, Jonathan crouched to one knee and pressed his back to a tree to cover his six o’clock. He scanned the woods in front of him for anything that looked like a target. Nothing.

Dylan was right. The degree of calm was downright creepy. He’d seen this happen in war zones as a prelude to some of his most intense firefights. Locals disappeared to stay away from the shooting they knew was on the way.

“I’m done,” Dylan said. “Let’s go.”

Jonathan handed him his phone, the fingerprint app already up. “Do me a favor and press the thumb and forefinger of her right hand onto the little square. Hit save after each one.”

“Jesus Christ, Scorpion, we’re wasting time.”

“I want to know who’s trying to kill me,” Jonathan said, never looking away from his scan of the trees. “I’m funny that way. That being the given, you’re the one who’s wasting time.”

Fifteen seconds later, Dylan proclaimed, “Okay, I’m done.”

Jonathan held out his hand for the phone, and then slid it back into his pocket. “Be careful when you move,” he said. “I haven’t looked behind us in a while.”

Again, he didn’t bother to watch the other man. He was either good at his job or he wasn’t. They would come out of this healthy, or they wouldn’t. Dylan had always been good at his job.

“Still clear,” Dylan said. “And silent.”

“This feel like a trap to you?” Jonathan asked.

“Yup.”

“Scorpion, Mother Hen,” said the familiar voice in his ear.

“Go ahead, Mother Hen,” Jonathan whispered. The acknowledgment wasn’t necessary, but he wanted Dylan to know that he was talking to someone back home. He motioned for them to drop back down to a deep crouch.

“The satellite view just refreshed,” Venice said. “From the radio traffic I’ve been eavesdropping on, I assume that you and Dylan are both at the base of a tree near a body?”

“That’s affirm.”

“Okay. You can’t progress to the south. I show a cluster of heat signatures less than twenty yards from where you are right now. They’re gathered in a group of two and a group of three. It’s just like you said. They’ve laid a trap for you.”

“Do you have a suggested option?”

“Head west,” Venice said. “You need to put distance between you and them.”

“That will take us into the open.”

“Okay, then, you pick,” Venice said. She didn’t like it when her advice was sought and then argued with.

“Stand by one.” He caught Dylan up on the new intel.

“We can always move north,” he said. “At least we’ll keep the cover from the trees.”

Jonathan sighed. “That’ll move us farther from the exfil site,” he said. “And increase our wandering time. Assuming these guys are professionals, they’re going to regroup. Our best route to survival is to get out of here.”

“But among all those squatty gravestones, we’ll be completely exposed.”

“Yeah, but they’ll still be in the trees where they won’t be able to get a good shot.”

“Until they move.”

“Then we just have to move faster.” Jonathan used his sales smile.

Dylan didn’t seem moved. “This is crazy.”

Jonathan smacked his arm. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. Just remember to zig a little and zag a lot.”

Dylan looked at him as though he’d grown a second nose. “This is suicide.”

“Tell the kid to grow a pair,” Boxers’ voice said in his ear, “You draw ’em out, and I’ll knock ’em down.”

Jonathan grinned. “I thought I told you to bug out.”

“Yeah, we can talk later about the wisdom of that order,” Boxers said. “And since when did I ever listen to you?”

Jonathan addressed Dylan. “I’ve got Big Guy in my ear. He’s monitoring us and will provide cover fire if we need it.”

Dylan still didn’t appear to be sold.

“It’s not like we have a lot of options,” Jonathan said as his final pitch. “I don’t mean to throw a guilt thing on you, but I feel compelled to remind you that these guys are really here to kill you, not me. And not insignificantly, we came here to save your ass.”

Dylan smirked. “Are you sure you’re still young enough to run fast?”

“I heard that,” Big Guy said. “Shoot him.”

“On my count,” Jonathan said. “Three . . . two . . . one . . .” There was no need to articulate the word
zero
. On that metronome beat, they both darted forward like track stars leaving their marks. Jonathan cut left first and then jinked right, varying the number of strides in each angle as well as the angle itself off of due west. The idea was to be fast and unpredictable, so that even if a shooter were taking the proper lead with his sights, the target would no longer be where the bullet was when it arrived.

He estimated he was fifty yards downrange before he heard the first report of a gunshot from behind. It must have been significantly wide because he heard nothing of the characteristic whip crack of a bullet passing nearby. He threw a glance to his right to make sure Dylan was still okay, and was pleased to see the wanted man vaulting a tombstone without breaking stride.

The next shots came in rapid succession, and from a variety of weapons. This time, a chunk of marble erupted from a memorial obelisk ahead and to his left, and a second bullet pounded past his left ear. Next came a very brief burst of automatic weapons fire that sent him diving for cover. Throwing himself to the ground was as instinctive as it was stupid. Because bullets travel two or three times the speed of sound, the act of hearing the shot without first feeling the impact meant that you were okay.

“Keep running,” Big Guy said in his ear. “That shooter’s down. I believe I can smell the other one’s shitty underwear from here.”

Jonathan had never heard Boxers’ kill shot.

By the time Jonathan found his feet again, Dylan was easily a hundred yards ahead and still going. Before taking off after him, Jonathan pivoted back toward the trees and fired a long burst, sweeping once to the right and then to the left. He hated being shot at, and he needed to make the point. Then he was off again.

“That make you feel better, Boss?” Boxers asked.

Jonathan didn’t bother to answer. Within twenty seconds, Jonathan was on the far side of the graveyard and in the middle of El Chorrillo slums. He allowed himself to slow to a businessman’s walk, not just to call less attention to himself, but because he felt they were beyond the effective range of the enemy’s small arms, particularly with Big Guy keeping their heads down.

Dylan was waiting for him in the doorway of a peeling low-rise tenement. His chest heaved from the run, making Jonathan feel better about his own breathlessness. “What kept you?”

“Let’s get to the far side of these buildings,” Jonathan said. He wasn’t going to spar with this guy. He hadn’t earned it yet. “I don’t think they can get a reliable shot from this range, but I’d be happier with hard cover.”

Jonathan led the way half a block south until they got a break in the façades, and then he hung a sharp right. “You might want to camouflage that rifle,” he said.

Dylan kept his hand wrapped around the grip, but held it at his side, in line with the rest of his body. It was still visible, but you had to be looking for it to see it. There was a time when the residents of this neighborhood were used to seeing such things, and the sight wouldn’t have raised too much suspicion—certainly not the kind of suspicion that would drive them to call the authorities, because the authorities were the people they were most afraid of. In more recent years, as a more peaceful corruption had embraced the people of Panama, Jonathan wasn’t sure what the reaction would be.

Two gringos with firearms. What could possibly go wrong? He felt like he was in enemy territory.

The neighborhood was a dump. The vivid pastel paint jobs that were such the rage in Central American cities had faded and turned chalky. Where fences had been installed—always chain-link—the gates all hung by a single hinge if they hung at all, and it appeared that three of every four windows were broken. Potholed streets gave in to buckled sidewalks. As they moved farther away from the cemetery, people became more common. Four boys paused their soccer game to eyeball the gringo strangers as they passed, their faces showing the kind of studied disinterest that dominated civilians in every war zone in the world.

“What do you bet phone calls are being made?” Jonathan mumbled to Dylan.

“You’re assuming they have phones,” Dylan countered. “I worry more about the rumor mill. It’s more efficient and way faster.”

When they made it as far as the next street, they hooked a left and started moving south again. The scenery changed even though it didn’t. The architecture remained downtrodden, though shanty houses were morphing into shanty businesses—bodegas and bars mostly, with customers gathered outside in the sweltering heat that was at least less sweltering than the stagnant air inside. The front of one property led to the rear of another, lending a haphazard, airdropped appearance to the community.

Their destination was Avenue A, one hundred yards distant, and from there they would turn left and head back to the vehicle that they’d stashed under Miguel’s protection. Total distance, all turns included, couldn’t have been more than a half mile, but as they closed the distance to the Avenue, a crowd began to form ahead of them. Locals spilled into the street from both sides, mostly men and mostly in their twenties—the sweet spot age for young and stupid.

“This doesn’t look good,” Dylan observed.

“Just keep walking,” Jonathan said. “Keep the pace purposeful, and keep eye contact. Don’t speak unless they speak first.” He’d learned a long time ago that a purposeful stride scared the shit out of people who were trying to intimidate. If you behaved as if you belonged, and made no attempt to explain, even as your eyes dared others to ask, seven times out of ten you could preserve your Alpha Dog status. The other three times out of ten things turned ugly.

“If it comes to it,” Jonathan continued, “you’re responsible for the bad guys on the right, and I’ll take the left.” Dylan was among the most professional of professional soldiers. Jonathan did not insult him by explaining that any form of violence was strictly a last resort.

Jonathan’s P90 dangled by its strap under his armpit, muzzle pointed toward the street. To be totally neutral—to convey a totally peaceful intent—he would have just let it flop there as he approached, but that wasn’t the right move for this group. As the locals closed ranks and pressed together to form a human roadblock, Jonathan rested his right hand on the weapon’s grip, effectively mimicking Dylan’s posture with the M16.

“They’re tightening ranks,” Dylan said under his breath, barely audible.

Jonathan looked to his right toward Boxers’ position in the sniper’s nest and confirmed that they were out of his sight line. That meant they were alone. “Keep walking,” Jonathan said. “Slow and steady. Do not stop and do not step out of the way.”

“You’re picking a fight.”

“Nope,” Jonathan said. “I’m stopping one before it starts. Just keep your face stern and maintain eye contact. Don’t make any threatening moves, but don’t tolerate any, either.” While their paths had crossed briefly during Jonathan’s days with the Unit, he and Dylan had never fought together. He understood that the man was well trained, and the fact that he was still alive spoke to a certain talent at surviving, but among the new generation of warriors, he’d found that subtlety had taken a backseat to outright aggression. That was one of the prices to be paid for fifteen years of constant warfare.

Twenty yards separated them from the locals. Ten. These were tough, territorial young men who may or may not have heard the shooting earlier, but who understood above all that the gringos with the guns didn’t belong, and that they wanted them to leave. They needed to put on a good show of defiance. Jonathan hoped that they didn’t cross a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. He’d be happy to brush shoulders and exchange stink eyes, but if someone produced a gun, or slashed at him with a knife, that someone would die. And if past was precedent, that single event would create a convulsive reaction from the crowd that could only end in a bloodbath.