Chapter 5 The Scent of Death, Cordite, And Blood #2
Toro is a somewhat unlikely looking fellow: he looks like a cartoon caricature of a strongman, with a chest as thick and shoulders as broad as Chance's, or nearly so, tapering down to a hard, lean waist, creating an upside-down triangle of a torso.
He is not tall, but he is mammoth—Lash's build but with twenty-five pounds more muscle.
His jet-black hair is slicked into an elaborate pompadour, and he wears a neat, precisely trimmed Van Dyke goatee.
He is very vain, but his operator resume is spotless and impressive: four years with the Spanish Army's GOE, their version of Green Berets, and then four years with a classified black ops team operating primarily within UN peacekeeping parameters.
He doesn't know it yet, but he's on the very short list of successors who will make up the second phase of Jakob's Broken Arrows plan.
Beside him is Taj, an Indian national with ten years in the Indian Army's Para SF unit—an elite airborne unit. He is quite tall—taller than the Cabot boys but not as tall as Rev—clean cut and clean-shaven, with glossy black hair and a quiet, reserved manner. Only Jakob knows his history.
Fonz resembles his nickname's sake, the character from the old show Happy Days.
His outgoing, charming, class-clown persona hides a deep internal darkness stemming from both his childhood and his years with LAPD SWAT's D Platoon.
Even though he's not technically military, he's seen as much if not more action than some of the Arrows, as the D Platoon in particular ran hundreds of operations every year, and Fonz was the type to volunteer for every mission he could.
I pass around the rifles and magazines. "Today, gentlemen, is your baptism by fire into the order of the Broken Arrows." I meet each pair of eyes in turn. "This is our home." I gesture at the women. "This is our family. Need I say more?"
"No, Senora, you do not," Toro says in his booming, Spanish-accented voice. "I believe I am speaking for my brothers Taj and Fonz when I say we are prepared to fight unto the death for this home and la familia. Sí, mis hermanos?"
Taj nods once, thumping his fist into his chest.
Fonz grins, winks at the ladies. "Never fear, the Fonz is here."
Toro rolls his eyes. "You are an idiot."
"Eyyy, you're just pissy cuz you couldn't charm water out of a fountain, big boy." He passes his hand over his carefully coiffed hair.
I clear my throat. "Not the time for witty banter, gentlemen.
Our enemy is at the gates. Toro, Taj, take the roof and pick them off.
Fonz, you guard this room and these women.
Lorenzo and I will do the rest. Ladies, it's best if you lock yourselves in the gym.
It's bullet- and blast-proof, and locks from the inside. "
"We can help," Annika says. "None of us are exactly fainting daisies anymore."
"No, you certainly are not. But you are the targets of this operation.
They seek to use you as bait to capture and kill your men—our men.
You are all strong, capable women. You are survivors.
But you do not have the training the rest of us do.
I don't know how many enemy combatants we are facing, but it is a certainty that we are outnumbered. You will be safest in there."
Terra looks at the gym, and then at me. "I don't know how much I like the idea of sitting in there on my fat ass while the rest of you risk your lives for ours."
"That is the path we have chosen for ourselves, Miss Terra," Taj says, his voice low and quiet and gentle, with the same lilting accent as Anjalee.
"Facts, babe," Fonz says. "It's what we do. It's who the fuck we are."
"I agree with my comrades," Toro says.
"Enough talk," I cut in. "Positions."
Toro and Taj head for the stairs, clipping radios to waistbands and threading earpieces under their shirts.
Fonz guides the women to the gym and waits while they lock themselves in, and then takes up a position with his back to the door, where he can monitor the stairs and the exit to the outside.
Lorenzo and I head for the exit, emerging squinting into the blinding sun and blazing Vegas heat.
"Let's create defensive positions with the SUVs," I tell Ren.
He nods, and we pull the G-Wagens into a half-ring around the side door; the main entrance is well-nigh impregnable by design, so this side entrance is the only possible way in for attackers. We park the SUVs in staggered formation, so there isn't a straight line to the door.
We take up positions in the first line of vehicles, crouched behind tires, waiting.
"Jakob got that notification several minutes ago," Lorenzo says. "I was under the impression that that meant they were a hell of a lot closer than this."
"We have an early warning system. Anyone approaching the Club during the day passes through a series of laser sensors that trigger video cameras," I explain.
"Those cameras use algorithms to determine speed and formulate an ETA.
" I gesture at the hills. "We have them up there, as well—laser trip wires along the paths in the hills, so we can't be flanked without warning.
" My phone chimes, then. "Speaking of which, we have contact in the hills. "
I pass the message along to Toro and Taj.
"Too bad we don’t have a sniper," Lorenzo says. "It would be nice to have oversight up there on the roof. They could put a rifleman up in those hills and pick us off."
I eye him. "A good point." Another chime from my phone—the nearest set of cameras shows a caravan of black Tahoes approaching at breakneck speed; I count five. "We'll hold them off here. You go take out that contact in the hills. I'm only seeing one, at the moment."
Lorenzo nods. "On it." He leans in and kisses my cheek. "Don't die."
My cheek burns where he kissed it, and I have a sudden, powerful, and inexplicable urge to kiss him.
Before I can second-guess myself, I'm wrapping my hand around the back of his neck and pulling him down to me and my mouth is fusing to his and my tongue steals against his lips and I'm moaning low in my throat at the lush feel of his mouth.
He growls, hunching over me, clutching my jaw in one strong hand, sucking my tongue into his mouth.
We part after a too-brief moment, both of us panting.
"You either," I whisper.
Brow furrowed, chest heaving, Lorenzo peers down at me, shocked and aroused. He opens his mouth to speak, but I shove him roughly away. "Don't," I breathe. "Just go."
He stumbles backward a few steps, easily catching his balance. He nods. "Eu te amo."
He doesn't wait for an answer he knows isn't coming, but turns and jogs away toward the hills, picking up speed rapidly until he's running flat out across the baking oven of the blacktop parking lot.
His figure dwindles into the distance, becoming hazy in the shimmering heat waves.
His pace only slows slightly as he begins ascending the hills.
When he is out of sight, I wait with my back to the tire.
"Contact," Taj's quiet voice says. "Two hundred yards. Five vehicles. If each carries eight men, we could be facing up to forty tangos."
"Affirmative," I answer. "Don’t fire until I give the order."
"Roger," he says. "One hundred yards. Fifty. They're stopping. I count…seven in the first vehicle. Vests, rifles. These are not untrained thugs, I believe."
I twist in place and rise to peer over the hood.
The tangos have parked in a single file line and are exiting their cars and forming twin lines on either side of the vehicles.
They jog toward the entrance, rifles raised.
I let them approach until the last man has cleared the cover of the SUVs, and then I give the order. "Fire at will."
I tuck my rifle butt tight against my shoulder, peer through the reticle, putting the dot on the lead tango.
POP! The freakily quiet HK416 jolts my shoulder with a click of the bolt, and my target drops, a red hole in his forehead weeping crimson down his nose.
Pink spray bathes the man behind him, momentarily stunning him.
I thumb the fire selector switch to semi-auto and squeeze off a trio of rounds, dropping the tango behind my first target and raking the line of my fire further back, squeezing off burst after burst. Above me, Toro and Taj are firing as well—I can't hear their rifles, but I see targets dropping one after another.
At least half a dozen tangos are down within the first few seconds of contact—the element of surprise at work. They haven’t even gotten off a single shot, yet.
CRACKCRACKCRACK! An M4 barks from their side and something hot whickers past my ear—too damn close for my comfort.
I twist and drop to my ass, let out a harsh breath, and then pop back up.
CRACKCRACKCRACK! Their rounds whizz over my head as I find a target—a short, powerfully built Hispanic man with a bandana across his mouth and nose, a backward ball cap on his head.
He's aiming at the roof. I drop him, swing bead to the next target, drop him.
In my peripheral vision, I see men in the other line dropping with sprays of red.
The tangos are getting organized, now, however. They're pouring suppressive fire up at Toro and Taj, and now rounds are whipping, whickering, buzzing, and snapping around me, forcing me to drop down as the Mercedes' body thunks with incoming rounds.
I bolt for the next nearest SUV, feeling something catch at my braid. I scramble behind the SUV, panting; I grab my braid and examine it. A round neatly severed it about an inch above the tie. "Bastards," I mutter to myself.
I remove the hair tie, re-wrap it above the point of damage, and use my balisong to slice away the dangling remnants.