CHAPTER 17
DAMIáN
We are currently surrounded by hostiles at the terminal of an old abandoned airfield and the intel we received was half-right: the Medellín cartel is indeed loading a private plane with three hundred kilos of crystal. But their headcount was off.
Way off.
There aren’t twenty guards like we were told; there are at least fifty, all heavily armed, and they are fighting like fucking maniacs.
“Dami, freeze,” Law says through my earpiece.
I stop and stay still.
WHIZZ.
Law’s sniper round passes so close to my ear I can feel the damn air displacing.
THUD.
A second later, the cartel man who was about to blindside me from behind drops to the concrete.
“Thanks, Harry Shotter,” I say, waving cheerfully toward the rooftop where I know our beautiful redhead sniper is nested.
“Boss, do I have permission to shoot him?”
“Aww, don’t be like that, Lawy-law. We all know I’m your favorite.” I drop my empty magazine, slap a new one into my rifle, and chamber a round.
CLACK! CLACK! CLACK!
A machine gun fires, and the whole team ducks into safety.
“They are definitely hostile today,” Leif says over the comms, and I hear the rapid fire of his assault rifle in the background. “Their aura is incredibly aggressive.”
“They are a cartel, Leif!” Knox grunts, and I can see him throw a grenade at a group of men who are getting closer. “They don’t have auras. They have AK-47s.”
“Both can be true, Knox,” Leif replies.
“Something is wrong, jefe,” I say, after having to reload my rifle for a second time. “Either we were sent the wrong information, or something really big happened in the span of a day.”
Logan throws an explosive and shoots it before it hits the ground. “Big like what?”
“I don’t know… turf war, the death of one of their leaders, a union between cartels, you name it.”
“Shit… Alexios, talk to me. What is the status of the cargo?”
“It’s bad, Boss… Cargo is almost fully loaded, and they have started the preparations for taking off,” Alexios’s voice comes through the comms. “And if they head to either the East or Southeast, they’ll exit sovereign U.S. airspace in less than 4 minutes.”
“Sounds like if they lift that plane, they are gone-gone.” I guess.
“Pretty much.”
Yeah, that’s no bueno…
“There is no way we can push through this crossfire in time,” Knox says, and I can tell he is frustrated. “Law, can you take out the pilots?”
“Negative. The cockpit glass is reinforced, and I can’t get a clean shot at the flight deck from this elevation.”
I scan the area, hoping to find a better route or at least a closer trail to the other side of the plane, but there is nothing… And if we don’t—
Wait… is that…?
My eyes lock onto a small fuel truck parked near a hangar about ten yards away. And if that baby has fuel, we might get a chance to stop this.
“Bjorn, where are you?” I ask in his private line.
“Left side, bored out of my mind behind a concrete barrier. I haven’t moved faster than a jog in ten minutes. I’m dying here, Dami.”
“You want to drive?”
“I always want to drive,” he says, as if that was the stupidest question ever.
And yeah… maybe it was.
“Look at your two o’clock. You see the fuel truck?”
“Ja. You think it is full?”
“Worth a try,” I respond while getting in position to start running. “Are you in?”
“In? Hahahaha! I’ll race you for it.”
I exit Bjorn’s private line and pass to the main one. “Everyone, Bjorn and I need cover in two, and stay clear of the runway.”
“What are you doing, Damián?!” Alexios asks, and it’s so cute how worried he sounds.
I mean, I guess Bjorn and I don’t have the safest ideas on the planet… and sure, we might go overboard most of the time, but we always deliver.
“We are improvisiiing!” Bjorn sings.
“Oh, shit…” they all say in unison.
But it’s too late!
I break from cover and sprint across the open tarmac.
Bullets instantly hit the concrete at my heels, so I run in anything but a straight line while firing blindly toward them.
And a second later, my brothers are covering me with a beautiful wall of rapid fire.
I reach the passenger door of the fuel truck just as Bjorn slides across the hood like a freaking action star. He opens the driver-side door, pulling a knife from his vest, and jams it straight into the ignition column.
“Hey, lunatics!” Tae yells over the comms. “Please don’t blow off more than three limbs; I don’t have the equipment for more.”
“Dibs on two limb-medical-thingies,” says Bjorn as he twists his knife, rips two wires from the steering column, and sparks them together.
“Absolutely not,” I throw myself into the passenger seat and slam the door. “You can’t call dibs on medical supplies. Whoever gets hurt is the one who gets them.”
“I’m not saying if you blow two limbs, I’ll hoard the supplies, Dami,” he explains as the truck’s engine wakes up. “All I’m saying is that if we both lose more than one limb, I get to have two, you can have the other one.”
“Oh, okay. That makes more sense.” I roll down the window and shove the barrel of my rifle out. “Ready?”
“Hell yeah.”
Bjorn stomps on the accelerator, and the truck tears through a chain-link fence, sending sparks and twisted metal flying.
We both laugh because this is freaking awesome.
“This is, unequivocally, the most idiotic idea you have ever conceived,” Law says through the comms. “And the bar was already astronomically high.”
“You say that every time we have an idea,” Bjorn points out.
“Exactly…”
For the next few minutes, Bjorn drives and drifts like a maniac while I shoot at anything moving in our direction.
At first, the cartel tries to stop us, but between Bjorn’s erratic driving and our brothers laying down cover fire, they realize it’s impossible.
So they drop the defensive line and scramble to get the plane ready for takeoff instead.
“Naaan-na na na naaa-naa!” Bjorn hums, rocking his head back and forth over the steering wheel.
“Hermano… are you humming ‘Sabotage’ by the beautiful Beastie Boys?” I ask, right before shooting a guy holding a grenade.
He grins and rocks his head harder. “Na naaa nana nanana nanaaa!”
The dropped grenade explodes, and as we drive straight through the flames, I join him, rocking my head and screaming the best part:
“SABOTAGE!”
We hum and shoot, closing the distance fast, and ahead of us, the private plane is moving into place at the center of the airstrip.
Then I see him… a man stepping out of a hangar with an RPG launcher resting on his shoulder.
Uh oh.
“We have an RPG at five o’clock!”
Bjorn drifts the car, sliding us sideways to give me a better angle. I shove half my body out the window and open fire.
I drop the two cartel members closest to us, but the guy with the RPG is too far away, and he is aiming at us.
“He’s out of my reach!”
THWACK!
The man with the RPG drops instantly.
“RPG down,” says Law through the comms. “You’re welcome.”
“Thanks, Neville Long-Barrel!”
Bjorn bursts out laughing. “He will shoot you one day.”
“Oh, one hundred percent,” I laugh too.
By now, the plane is gaining speed, and it’s moments away from liftoff, while a dozen cartel members fire at us with everything they’ve got.
PING! PING!
I pull my head inside the cabin as a spray of bullets shatters the side mirror right next to my ear.
“Dami! If one of those hits the fuel tank, we’re going to be astronauts!”
“Just aim for the right wing! I’ve got a plan.”
“What’s the plan?” he asks, changing directions toward the right wing.
“We jump.”
“At twenty-four miles an hour?!”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“No, I love it!” Bjorn grins, throwing a quick glance to the back seats. “Pass me the fire extinguisher from the back.”
I twist around, unhook the super heavy extinguisher, and give it to him.
“Ready in two.” He takes the extinguisher and slams it down onto the accelerator, wedging it tightly under the steering column. “Now!”
I kick my door open and throw myself out, trying my best to roll instead of just splatting flat… But the impact is freaking brutal.
I hit the tarmac shoulder-first, tucking my chin to my chest as my momentum sends me tumbling. The concrete shreds my shirt, tears at my skin, bruises my ribs, and knocks the air completely out of my lungs.
A la madre…
I gasp for breath as I force myself to roll onto my stomach.
“Everyone, take cover.”
I bring my rifle up, aiming, and wait for the exact moment the fuel truck slides under the plane’s wing. Then, I shoot.
The tank on the truck ruptures, dumping gallons of highly flammable fuel all over the concrete.
“Say goodnight, pendejos,” I whisper.
I shoot the tarmac right next to the puddle, creating a spark that ignites the fuel, and BAM!
The explosion is magnificent and big.
Okay… maybe too big.
Damn it… I am way too close to the blast, and my body hurts so much I can’t move away in time.
“Damián!”
I turn my head just as Bjorn dives out of nowhere. He’s dragging a thick sheet of corrugated steel, likely blown off a nearby hangar, and he throws it right over the two of us.
The blast wave hits.
The heat washes over our shitty shield so intensely that it feels like the oxygen is instantly sucked from my lungs.
And when it’s finally over, we stay pinned to the ground for what feels like ninety years, waiting for the flaming debris to stop raining down on us.
Finally, Bjorn shoves the metal sheet off and rolls onto his back, panting heavily. His face, hair, and beard are covered in ashes, and he has a fresh cut bleeding over his left eyebrow.
He looks at me, his chest heaving… and bursts out laughing.
“Holy fuck! Did you see that?!”
“That was a ten out of ten, hermano!” I laugh back and start coughing. “Ouch, my ribs… my shoulder…”
“Don’t move, Damián,” says Tae, dropping to his knees beside us.
“We’re fine, Tae,” I groan, clearly not fine.
“Look, Tae!” Bjorn smiles, a little out of it, probably from his concussion. “We kept all our limbs.”
“Good boy for not losing them. Now stay still.” Tae takes a syringe and injects a local anesthetic right next to Bjorn’s cut.